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THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS

JOINT EDITORS

ARTHUR MEE Editor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge

J.A. HAMMERTON Editor of Harmsworth's Universal Encyclopaedia

VOL. VI FICTION


MCMX

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_Table of Contents_

LE FANU, SHERIDAN
  Uncle Silas

LESAGE, RENÉ
  Gil Blas

LEVER, CHARLES
  Charles O'Malley
  Tom Burke of Ours

LEWIS, M.G.
  Ambrosio, or the Monk

LINTON, MRS. LYNN
  Joshua Davidson

LOVER, SAMUEL
  Handy Andy

LYTTON, EDWARD BULWER
  Eugene Aram
  Last Days of Pompeii
  The Last of the Barons

MACKENZIE, HENRY
  Man of Feeling

MAISTRE, COUNT XAVIER DE
  A Journey Round my Room

MALORY, SIR THOMAS
  Morte d'Arthur

MANNING, ANNE
  Household of Sir Thomas More

MANZONI, ALESSANDRO
  The Betrothed

MARRYAT, CAPT
  Mr. Midshipman Easy
  Peter Simple

MATURIN, CHARLES
  Melmoth the Wanderer

MENDOZA, DIEGO DE
  Lazarillo de Tonnes

MEREJOWSKI, DMITRI
  Death of the Gods

MÉRIMÉE, PROSPER
  Carmen

MITFORD, MARY RUSSELL
  Our Village

MOIR, DAVID
  Mansie Wauch

MORIER, JAMES
  Hajji Baba

MURRAY, DAVID CHRISTIE
  Way of the World

NORRIS, FRANK
  The Pit

OHNET, GEORGES
  The Ironmaster

OUIDA
  Under Two Flags

PAYN, JAMES
  Lost Sir Massingberd


A Complete Index of THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS will be found at the end
of Volume XX.

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_Acknowledgment_

Acknowledgment and thanks for permission to use the following selections
are herewith tendered to G.P. Putnam's Sons, New York, for "The Death of
the Gods," by Dmitri Merejkowski; and to Doubleday, Page & Company, New
York, for "The Pit," by Frank Norris.

       *       *       *       *       *




SHERIDAN LE FANU


Uncle Silas


     Joseph Sheridan le Fanu, Irish novelist, poet, and journalist,
     was born at Dublin on August 28, 1814. His grandmother was a
     sister of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, his father a dean.
     Educated at Trinity College, Dublin, Le Fanu became a
     contributor to the "Dublin University Magazine," afterwards
     its editor, and finally its proprietor. He also owned and
     edited a Dublin evening paper. Le Fanu first came into
     prominence in 1837 as the author of the two brilliant Irish
     ballads, "Phaudhrig Croohore" and "Shamus O'Brien." His
     novels, which number more than a dozen, were first published
     in most cases in his magazine. His power of producing a
     feeling of weird mystery ranks him with Edgar Allan Poe. It
     may be questioned whether any Irish novelist has written with
     more power. The most representative of his stories is "Uncle
     Silas, a Tale of Bartram-Haugh," which appeared in 1864. Le
     Fanu died on February 7, 1873.


_I.--Death, the Intruder_


It was winter, and great gusts were rattling at the windows; a very dark
night, and a very cheerful fire, blazing in a genuine old fire-place in
a sombre old room. A girl of a little more than seventeen, slight and
rather tall, with a countenance rather sensitive and melancholy, was
sitting at the tea-table in a reverie. I was that girl.

The only other person in the room was my father, Mr. Ruthyn, of Knowl.
Rather late in life he had married, and his beautiful young wife had
died, leaving me to his care. This bereavement changed him--made him
more odd and taciturn than ever. There was also some disgrace about his
younger brother, my Uncle Silas, which he felt bitterly, and he had
given himself up to the secluded life of a student.

He was pacing the floor. I remember the start with which, not suspecting
he was close by me, I lifted my eyes, and saw him stand looking fixedly
on me from less than a yard away.

"She won't understand," he whispered, "no, she won't. _Will_ she? They
are easily frightened--ay, they are. I'd better do it another way, and
she'll not suspect--she'll not suppose. See, child?" he said, after a
second or two. "_Remember_ this key."

It was oddly shaped, and unlike others.

"It opens that." And he tapped sharply on the door of a cabinet. "You
will tell nobody what I have said, under pain of my displeasure."

"Oh, no, sir!"

"Good child! _Except_ under one contingency. That is, in case I should
be absent and Dr. Bryerly--you recollect the thin gentleman in
spectacles and a black wig, who spent three days here last
month?--should come and enquire for the key, you understand, in my
absence."

"But you will then be absent, sir," I said. "How am I to find the key?"

"True, child. I am glad you are so wise. _That_, you will find, I have
provided for. I have a very sure friend--a friend whom I once
misunderstood, but now appreciate."

I wondered silently whether it would be Uncle Silas.

"He'll make me a call some day soon, and I must make a little journey
with him. He's not to be denied; I have no choice. But on the whole I
rather like it. Remember, I say, I rather like it."

I think it was about a fortnight after this conversation that I was one
night sitting in the great drawing-room window, when on a sudden, on the
grass before me stood an odd figure--a very tall woman in grey
draperies, courtesying rather fantastically, smiling very unpleasantly
on me, and gabbling and cackling shrilly--I could not distinctly hear
_what_--and gesticulating oddly with her long arms and hands. This was
Madame de la Rougierre, my new governess.

I think all the servants hated her. She was by no means a pleasant
_gouvernante_ for a nervous girl of my years. She was always making
excuses to consult my father about my contumacy and temper. She
tormented me by ghost stories to cover her nocturnal ramblings, and she
betrayed a terrifying curiosity about his health and his will. My cousin
Monica, Lady Knollys, who visited us about this time, was shocked at her
presence in the house; it was the cause of a rupture between my father
and her. But not even a frustrated attempt to abduct me during one of
our walks--which I am sure madame connived at--could shake my father's
confidence in her, though he was perfectly transported with fury on
hearing what had happened. It was not until I found her examining his
cabinet by means of a false key that he dismissed her; but madame had
contrived to leave her glamour over me, and now and then the memory of
her parting menaces would return with an unexpected pang of fear.

My father never alluded again to Madame de la Rougierre, but, whether
connected with her exposure and dismissal or not, there appeared to be
some new trouble at work in his mind.

"I am anxious about you, Maud," he said. "_You_ are more interested than
_I_ can be in vindicating his character."

"Whose character, sir?" I ventured to inquire during the pause that
followed.

"Whose? Your Uncle Silas's. In course of nature he must survive me. He
will then represent the family name. Would you make some sacrifice to
clear that name, Maud?"

I answered briefly; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm.

"I can tell you, Maud, if my life could have done it, it should not have
been undone. But I had almost made up my mind to leave all to time to
illuminate, or _consume_. But I think little Maud would like to
contribute to the restitution of her family name. It may cost you
something. Are you willing to buy it at a sacrifice? Your Uncle Silas,"
he said, speaking suddenly in loud and fierce tones that sounded almost
terrible, "lies under an intolerable slander. He troubles himself little
about it; he is selfishly sunk in futurity--a feeble visionary. I am not
so. The character and influence of an ancient family are a peculiar
heritage--sacred, but destructible. You and I, we'll leave one proof on
record which, fairly read, will go far to convince the world."

That night my father bade me good-night early. I had fallen into a doze
when I was roused by a dreadful crash and a piercing scream from Mrs.
Rusk. Scream followed scream, pealing one after the other unabated,
wilder and more terror-stricken. Then came a strange lull, and the dull
sounds of some heavy body being moved.

What was that dreadful sound? Who had entered my father's chamber? It
was the visitor whom he had so long expected, with whom he was to make
the unknown journey, leaving me alone. The intruder was Death!


_II.--The Sorceries of Bartram-Haugh_


One of those fearful aneurisms that lie close to the heart had given way
in a moment. He had fallen, with the dreadful crash I had heard, dead
upon the floor. He fell across the door, which caused a difficulty in
opening it. Mrs. Rusk could not force it open. No wonder she had given
way to terror. I think I should have lost my reason.

I do not know how those awful days, and still more awful nights, passed
over. Lady Knollys came, and was very kind. She was odd, but her
eccentricity was leavened with strong commonsense; and I have often
thought since with gratitude of the tact with which she managed my
grief.

I did not know where to write to Dr. Bryerly, to whom I had promised the
key, but in accordance with my father's written directions, his death
was forthwith published in the principal London papers. He came at
midnight, accordingly, and on the morrow the will was read. Except for a
legacy of £10,000 to his only brother, Silas Ruthyn, and a few minor
legacies to relations and servants, my father had left his whole estate
to me, appointing my Uncle Silas my sole guardian, with full parental
authority over me until I should have reached the age of twenty-one, up
to which time I was to reside under his care at Bartram-Haugh, with the
sum of £2,000 paid yearly to him for my suitable maintenance and
education.

I was startled by the expression of cousin Monica's face. She looked
ghastly and angry.

"To whom," she asked, with an effort, "will the property belong in
case--in case my cousin should die before she comes of age?"

"To the next heir, her uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn. He's both heir-at-law
and next-of-kin," replied the attorney.

She was anxious to persuade my uncle to relinquish his guardianship to
her; but the evening of the funeral a black-bordered letter came from
him, bidding me remain at Knowl until he could arrange for my journey to
him. There was a postscript, which made my cheek tingle.

"Pray present my respects to Lady Knollys, who, I understand, is
sojourning at Knowl. I would observe that a lady who cherishes, I have
reason to fear, unfriendly feelings against your uncle is not the most
desirable companion for his ward. But, upon the express condition that I
am not made the subject of your discussions, I do not interpose to bring
your intercourse to an immediate close."

"Did I ever hear! Well, if this isn't impertinent!" exclaimed Lady
Knollys. "I did not intend to talk about him, but now I _will_." And so
it was that I heard the story of that enigmatical person--martyr, angel,
demon--Uncle Silas, with whom my fate was now so strangely linked.

It was twenty years ago. He was not a reformed rake, but a ruined one
then. My father had helped him again and again, until his marriage with
a barmaid. After that he allowed him five hundred a year, and the use of
his estate of Bartram-Haugh. Then Mr. Charke, a gentleman of the turf,
who was staying with my uncle for Doncaster Races, was found dead in his
room--he had committed suicide by cutting his throat. And Uncle Silas
was suspected of having killed him.

This wretched Mr. Charke had won heavy wagers at the races from Uncle
Silas, and at night they had played very deep at cards. Next morning his
servant could not enter his room; it was locked on the inside, the
window was fastened by a screw, and the chimney was barred with iron. It
seemed that he had hermetically sealed himself in, and then killed
himself. But he had been in boisterous spirits. Also, though his own
razor was found near his right hand, the fingers of his left hand were
cut to the bone. Then the memorandum-book in which his bets were noted
was nowhere to be found. Besides, he had written two letters to a
friend, saying how profitable he had found his visit to Bartram-Haugh,
and that he held Uncle Silas's I O U's for a frightful sum; and although
my uncle stoutly alleged he did not owe him a guinea, there had scarcely
been time in one evening for him to win back so much money. In a moment
the storm was up, and although my uncle met it bravely, he failed to
overcome it, and became a social outcast, in spite of all my father's
efforts.

And now I was to rehabilitate him before the world, and accordingly all
preparations were made for my departure from Knowl; and at last the
morning came--a day of partings, a day of novelty, and regrets.

I remember we passed a gypsy bivouac on our journey, with fires alight,
on the edge of a great, heathy moor. I had my fortune told, and I am
ashamed to confess I paid the gypsy a pound for a brass pin with a round
bead for a head--a charmed pin, which would keep away rat, and cat, and
snake, a malevolent spirit, or "a cove to cut my throat," from hurting
me. The purchase was partly an indication of the trepidations of that
period of my life. At all events, I had her pin and she my pound, and I
venture to say I was the gladder of the two.

It was moonlight when we reached Bartram-Haugh. It had a forlorn
character of desertion and decay, contrasting almost awfully with the
grandeur of its proportions and richness of its architecture. A shabby
little old man, a young plump, but very pretty female figure in
unusually short petticoats, and a dowdy old charwoman, all stood in the
door among a riot of dogs. I sat shyly back, peeping at the picture
before me.

"Will you tell me--yes or no--is my cousin in the coach?" screamed the
young lady. She received me with a hug and a hearty "buss," as she
called that salutation, and was evidently glad to see me. Then, after
leading me to my bed-room to make a hurried toilet, she conducted me to
a handsome wainscotted room, where my Uncle Silas awaited me.

A singular looking old man--a face like marble, with a fearful
monumental look--an apparition, drawn, as it seemed, in black and white,
venerable, bloodless, fiery-eyed, with its strange look of power and an
expression so bewildering. Was it derision, or anguish, or cruelty, or
patience?

He said something in his clear, gentle, but cold voice, and, taking both
my hands, led me affectionately to a chair near his own. He was a
miserable invalid, he told me, after speaking a little eulogy of his
brother and examining me closely, respecting his illness and its
symptoms. At last, remarking that I must be fatigued, he rose and kissed
me with a solemn tenderness, and, placing his hand on a large Bible,
bade me "Remember that book; in it lives my only hope. Consult it, my
beloved niece, day and night as the only oracle."

"I'm awful afraid of the governor, I am," said Cousin Milly, when we had
left him. "I was in a qualm. When he spies me a-napping maybe he don't
fetch me a prod with his pencil-case over the head."

But Milly was a pretty and a clever creature in spite of her uncouth
dialect, and I liked her very much. We spent much time taking long
country rambles and exploring the old house, many of whose rooms were
closed and shuttered. Of my uncle we saw little. He was "queerish,"
Milly said, and I learnt afterwards he took much laudanum.

My other cousin, Dudley, I did not meet till later. To my horror, I
beheld in him one of the party of ruffians who had terrified me so much
the day of the attempted abduction at Knowl; but he stoutly denied ever
having been there with an air so confident that I began to think I must
be the dupe of a chance resemblance. My uncle viewed him with a strange,
paternal affection. But dear Cousin Monica had written asking Milly and
me to go to her, and we had some of the pleasantest and happiest days of
our lives at her house of Elverston, for there Milly met her good little
curate, the Rev. Sprigge Biddlepen, and Lord Ilbury.

Uncle Silas was terribly ill when we returned to Bartram-Haugh, the
result of an overdose of opium; but for the doctor's aid he would have
died. Remembering how desperate Lady Knollys had told me his monetary
position was, a new and dreadful suspicion began to haunt me.

"Had he attempted to poison himself?"

I remember I was left alone with him while his attendant fetched a fresh
candle. A small thick Bible lay on the mantle-shelf. I turned over its
leaves, and lighted on two or three odd-looking papers--promissory
notes, I believe--when Uncle Silas, dressed in a long white
morning-gown, slid over the end of the bed and stood behind me with a
deathlike scowl and simper. Diving over my shoulder, with his long, thin
hand he snatched the Bible from me, and whispered over my head, "The
serpent beguiled her, and she did eat."

It seemed an hour before Wyat came back. You may be sure I did not
prolong my watch. I had a long, hysterical fit of weeping when I got to
my room: the sorceries of Bartram-Haugh were enveloping.

About this time Dudley began to persecute me with his odious attentions.
I was obliged to complain of him to my uncle. He was disposed to think
well of the match; but I could not consent, and it was arranged that my
cousin should go abroad. And then that night I had the key to some of
the mysterious doings at Bartram-Haugh--the comings and goings in the
darkness which had so often startled me--the face of Madame de la
Rougierre peeped into the room.


_III.--A Night of Terror_


Shortly afterwards I lost Milly, who was sent to a French school, where
I was to follow her in three months. I bade her farewell at the end of
Windmill Wood, and was sitting on the trunk of a tree when Meg Hawkes, a
girl to whom I had once been kind, passed by.

"Don't ye speak, nor look; fayther spies us," she said quickly. "Don't
ye be alone wi' Master Dudley nowhere, for the world's sake!"

The injunction was so startling that I had many an hour of anxious
conjecture, and many a horrible vigil by night. But ten days later I was
summoned to my uncle's room. He implored me once more to wed Dudley--to
listen to the appeal of an old and broken-hearted man.

"You see my suspense--my miserable and frightful suspense," he said.
"I'm very miserable, nearly desperate. I stand before you in the
attitude of a suppliant."

"Oh, I must--I must--I _must_ say no!" I cried. "Don't question me,
don't press me. I could not--I _could_ not do what you ask!"

"I yield, Maud--I yield, my dear. I will _not_ press you. I have spoken
to you frankly, perhaps too frankly; but agony and despair will speak
out and plead, even with the most obdurate and cruel!"

He shut the door, not violently, but with a resolute hand, and I thought
I heard a cry.

The discovery that Dudley was already married spared me further
importunity. I was anxious to relieve my uncle's necessities, which, I
knew were pressing; and the attorney from Feltram was up with him all
night, trying in vain to devise some means by which I might do so. The
morning after, I was told I must write to Lady Knollys to ask if I might
go to her, as there was shortly to be an execution in the house.

I met Dudley on my way through the hall. He spoke oddly about his
father, and made a very strange proposal to me--that I should give him
my written promise for twenty thousand pounds, and he would "take me
cleverly out o' Bartram-Haugh and put me wi' my cousin Knollys!"

I refused indignantly, but he caught me by the wrist.

"Don't ye be a-flyin' out," he said peremptorily. "Take it or leave
it--on or off! Can't ye speak wi' common sense for once? I'll take ye
out o' all this, if you'll gi'e me what I say."

He looked black when I refused again. I judged it best to tell my uncle
of his offer. He was startled, but made what excuse he could, smiling
askance, a pale, peaked smile that haunted me. And then, once more,
entering an unfrequented room, I came upon the great bony figure of
Madame de la Rougierre. She was to be my companion for a week or two, I
was told, and shortly after her coming I found my walks curtailed. I
wrote again to my Cousin Knollys, imploring her to take me away. This
letter my uncle intercepted, and when she came in reply to my former
letter, I had but the sight of her carriage driving swiftly away.

The morning after I was informed madame was to take me to join Milly in
France. As Uncle Silas had directed, I wrote to Cousin Monica from
London. I know madame asked me what I would do for her if she took me to
Lady Knollys. I was inwardly startled, but refused, seeing before me
only a tempter and betrayer; and together we ended our journey, driving
from the station through the dark and starless night to find ourselves
at last in Mr. Charke's room at Bartram-Haugh.

There were bailiffs in the house, I was told. I was locked in. I
entreated madame wildly, piteously, to save me; but she mocked me in my
agony. I escaped for a brief moment, and sought my uncle. I can never
forget the look he fixed on me.

"What is the meaning of this? Why is she here?" he asked, in a stern,
icy tone. "You were always odd, niece. I begin to believe you are
insane. There's no evil intended you, by--, there is none! Go to your
room, and don't vex me, there's a good girl!"

I went upstairs with madame, like a somnambulist. She was to leave me to
sleep alone that night. I had lost the talismanic pin I always stuck in
the bolster of my bed. Uncle Silas sent up spiced claret in a little
silver flagon. Madame abstractedly drank it off, and threw herself on my
bed. I believed she was feigning sleep only, and really watching me; but
now I think the claret was drugged.

About an hour afterwards I heard them digging in the courtyard. Like a
thunder-bolt it smote my brain. "They are making my grave!"

After the first dreadful stun, I grew wild, running up and down wringing
my hands, and gasping prayers to heaven. Then a dreadful calm stole over
me.


_IV.--The Open Door_


It was a very still night. A peculiar sound startled me and I saw a man
descend by a rope, and take his stand on the windowsill. In a moment
more, window, bars and all, swung noiselessly open, and Dudley Ruthyn
stepped into the room.

He stole, in a groping way, to the bed, and stooped over it. Nearly at
the same moment there came a scrunching blow; an unnatural shriek,
accompanied by a convulsive sound, as of the motion of running, and the
arms drumming on the bed, and then another blow--and silence. The
diabolical surgery was over. There came a little tapping at the door.

"Who's that?" whispered Dudley hoarsely.

"A friend," answered a sweet voice, and Uncle Silas entered.

Coolness was given me in that dreadful moment. I knew that all depended
on my being prompt and resolute. With a mental prayer for help, I glided
from the room and descended the stairs. I tried the outer door. To my
wild surprise it was open. In a moment I was in the free air--and as
instantaneously was seized by Tom Brice, Meg's sweetheart, who was
waiting to drive the guilty father and son away.

"They shan't hurt ye, miss. Get ye in; I don't care a d----!" he said in
a wild, fierce whisper. To me it was the voice of an angel. He drove
over the grass so that our passage was noiseless; then, on reaching the
highway, at a gallop. At length we entered Elverston. I think I was half
wild. I could not speak, but ran, with a loud, long scream, into Cousin
Monica's arms. I forget a great deal after that.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not till two years afterwards that I learnt that Uncle Silas was
found next morning dead of an overdose of laudanum, and that Dudley had
disappeared.

Milly married her good little clergyman. I am Lady Ilbury now, happy in
the affection of a beloved and noble-hearted husband. A tiny voice is
calling "Mamma;" the shy, useless girl you have known is now a mother,
thinking, and trembling while she smiles, how strong is love, how frail
is life.

       *       *       *       *       *




RENÉ LE SAGE


Gil Blas


     Except that he was born at Sarzeau, in Brittany, on May 8,
     1668, and that he was the son of the novelist Claude le Sage,
     little is known of the youth of Alain René le Sage. Until he
     was eighteen he was educated with the Jesuits at Vannes, when,
     it is conjectured he went to Paris to continue his studies for
     the Bar. An early marriage drove him to seek a livelihood by
     means of literature, and shortly afterwards he found a
     valuable and sympathetic friend and patron in the Abbé de
     Lyonne, who not only bestowed upon him a pension of about
     £125, but also gave him the use of his library. The first
     results of this favour were adaptations of two plays from
     Rojas and Lope de Vega, which appeared some time during the
     first two or three years of the eighteenth century. Le Sage's
     reputation as a playwright and as a novelist rests, oddly
     enough, in each case on one work. As the author of "Tuscaret,"
     produced in 1709, he contributed to the stage one of the best
     comedies in the French language; as author of "The Adventures
     of Gil Blas of Santillana" he stands for all time in the front
     rank of the world's novelists. Here he brought the art of
     story-writing to the highest level of artistic truth. The
     first and second parts of the work appeared in 1715, the third
     in 1724, and the fourth in 1735. Le Sage died at Boulogne on
     November 17, 1747.


_I.--I Start on my Travels_


My uncle, Canon Perez, was a worthy priest. To live well was, in his
opinion, the chief duty of man. He lived very well. He kept the best
table in the town of Oviedo. I was very glad of this, as I lived with
him, my parents being too poor to keep me.

My uncle gave me an excellent education. He even learned to read so as
to be able to teach me himself. There were few ecclesiastics of his rank
in Spain in the early part of the seventeenth century who could read a
breviary as well as he could when I left him, at the age of seventeen,
to continue my duties at the University of Salamanca.

"Here are forty ducats, Gil Blas," he said to me when we parted. "And
you can take my old mule and sell it when you reach Salamanca. Then you
will be able to live comfortable until you obtain a good position."

It is, I suppose, about two hundred miles from Oviedo to Salamanca. Not
very far, you will say, but it took me two years to cover the distance.
When one travels along a high road at the age of seventeen, master of
one's actions, of an old mule, and forty ducats, one is bound to meet
with adventures on the way. I was out to see the world, and I meant to
see it; my self-confidence was equalled only by my utter inexperience.
Out of my first misadventure came an extraordinary piece of good luck. I
fell into the hands of some brigands, and lost my mule and my money.
Among my fellow prisoners was a wealthy lady, Doña Mencia, of Burgos. I
helped her to escape and got away myself, and when I came to Burgos she
rewarded me very handsomely with a diamond ring and a thousand ducats.
This changed my plan of life completely. Why should I go and study at
Salamanca? Did I want to become a priest or a pedant? I was now sure
that I didn't.

"Gil Blas," I said, "you are a good-looking lad, clever, well-educated,
and ambitious. Why not go to Madrid and try to get some place at the
court of King Philip the Third?"

I spent sixty ducats in dressing myself out gaily in the manner of a
rich cavalier, and I engaged a man of about thirty years of age to come
with me as my servant.

Lamela, as he was called, was quite different from the other valets who
applied for the position. He did not demand any sum as wages.

"Only let me come with you, sir," he said. "I shall be content with
whatever you give me."

It seemed to me that I had got a very good servant We slept at Duengas
the first night, and on the second day we arrived at Valladolid. As I
was sitting in my inn, a charming lady entered and asked to see me.

"My dear Gil Blas," she exclaimed "Lamela has just told me of your
arrival. I am a cousin of Doña Mencia, and I received a letter from her
this morning. How brave it was of you to rescue her from those wicked
brigands! I can't leave you in this inn. You must come at once to my
house. My brother, Don Raphael, will be delighted to see you when he
returns in an hour or two from our country castle."

Doña Camilla, as the lady was called, led me to a great house in the
best part of the town, and at the door we met Don Raphael. "What a
handsome young cavalier you are, my dear Gil Blas!" he said. "You must
make up your mind to stay with us for some weeks."

The supper was a pleasant affair. Doña Camilla and her brother found
something to admire in everything I said, and I began to fancy myself as
a wit. It was very late when Lamela led me to my bed-room and helped me
to undress. And it was very late when I awoke next day. I called to
Lamela, but he did not come, so I arose and dressed myself and went
downstairs. To my surprise there was nobody in the house, and all my
baggage had disappeared. I looked at my hand--the diamond ring had gone.
Then I understood why Lamela had been willing to come with me without
troubling about wages. I had fallen for a second time into the hands of
thieves. They had hired the furnished house for a week, and had trapped
me in it. It was clear that I had boasted too much at Burgos about the
thousand ducats which Doña Mencia gave me. Now I found myself at
Valladolid quite penniless.

As I walked along the street in a very despondent mood, not knowing how
to get a meal, someone tapped me on the shoulder, and said, "Good
gracious, Gil Blas, I hardly knew you! What a princely dress you've got
on. A fine sword, silk stockings, a velvet mantle and doublet with
silver lacings! Have you come into a fortune?"

I turned around, and found it was Fabrice, an old schoolfellow, the son
of a barber at Oviedo. I told him of my adventure.

"Pride comes before a fall, you see," he said with a laugh. "But I can
get you a place if you care to take it. One of the principal physicians
of the town, Dr. Sangrado, is looking for a secretary. I know you write
a very good hand. Sell your fine raiment and buy some plain clothes, and
I will take you to the doctor."

I am glad to say that I obtained the post, but I wasn't altogether
satisfied with it. Dr. Sangrado believed in vegetarianism, and he gave
me only peas and beans and baked apples to eat, and not much of those.
At the end of a fortnight I resolved to go as a servant in some house:
where meat and wine were to be had.

"Don't be foolish," said Sangrado. "Your fortune is made if you only
stay with me. I am getting old and I require someone to help me in my
practice. You can do it. You need not waste your time in studying all
the nonsense written by other doctors. You have only to follow my
method. Never give a patient medicine. Bleed him well, and tell him to
drink a pint of hot water every half hour. If that doesn't cure
him--well, it's time he died."

So I donned one of Sangrado's gowns, which gave me a very original
appearance, as it was much too long and ample for me, and then I began
to attend his patients. A few of them, I believe, managed to recover.
One day a woman stopped me and took me into her house to look at her
niece. I recognised the girl as soon as I saw her. It was the pretty
adventuress, Camilla, who had decoyed me and helped to rob me of my
thousand ducats. When I took her hand to feel her pulse I perceived that
she was wearing my diamond ring. Happily, she was too ill to know me.
After ordering her to be bled and given a pint of warm water every half
hour, I went out and talked the matter over with Fabrice. We resolved
not to call in the police, as they would certainly keep whatever money
of mine they recovered. The ways of the law in Spain in the seventeenth
century are very strange and intricate.

Nevertheless, I returned late at night to the house accompanied by a
sergeant of the police and five of his men, all well armed. I then awoke
Camilla, and told her to dress herself and attend before the magistrate.

"Oh, Gil Blas," she cried, "have pity on me. Lamela and Raphael have run
off with the money, and left me alone here on a bed of sickness."

I knew this was true, as I had made inquiries; but I also knew that
Camilla had had a share of the spoil, and had bought some valuable
jewelry with it. So I said, "Very well, I won't be hard on you. But you
must give me back the diamond ring which you are wearing, and you must
satisfy these officers of the police."

Poor Camilla understood what I meant. It is a costly matter to satisfy
the Spanish police. She gave me the ring, and then, with a sigh, she
opened a casket and handed the sergeant everything it contained--a
necklace of beautiful pearls, a pair of fine earrings, and some other
jewels.

"Isn't this better than calling in the police?" said the sergeant when
we had left the house. "There are the jewels. Two hundred ducats' worth,
I'll be bound!"

No doubt, dear reader, you have seen through this little plot. The
supposed sergeant was my old friend, Fabrice, and his five men were five
young barbers of his acquaintance. They quickly changed their clothes,
and we all went to an inn and spent a merry evening together.


_II.--In Male Attire_


A few days afterwards I took up the plan which I had formed at Burgos,
and bravely set out for Madrid in the hope of making my fortune there.
But my money did not last long, for on reaching the capital I fell in
with a wild company of fashionable actors and actresses.

As my purse grew lighter my conscience became tenderer, and at length I
humbly accepted the position of lackey in the house of a rich old
nobleman, Don Vincent de Guzman. He was a widower, with an only child,
Aurora--a lovely, gay, and accomplished girl of twenty-six years of age.

I had hardly been with him a month when he died, leaving his daughter
mistress of all his wealth, and free to do what she liked with it. To my
surprise, Aurora then began to distinguish me from all the other
servants. I could see by the way she looked at me that there was
something about me that attracted her. Great ladies, I knew, sometimes
fall in love with their lackeys, and one evening my hopes were raised to
the highest pitch; for Aurora's maid then whispered to me that somebody
would like to talk to me alone at midnight in the garden. Full of wild
impatience, I arrived at the spot two hours before the time. Oh, those
two hours! They seemed two eternities.

At midnight Aurora appeared, and I threw myself at her feet, exclaiming,
"Oh, my dear lady! Even in my wildest dreams of love I never thought of
such happiness as this!"

"Don't talk so loud!" said Aurora, stepping back and laughing. "You will
rouse all the household. So you thought I was in love with you? My dear
boy, I am in love with somebody else. Knowing how clever and ingenious
you are, I want you to come at once with me to Salamanca and help me to
win my love."

Naturally, I was much disconcerted by this strange turn of affairs.
However, I managed to recover myself and listen to my mistress. She had
fallen in love with a gallant young nobleman, Don Luis Pacheco, who was
unaware of the passion he inspired. He was going the next day to
Salamanca to study at the university, and Aurora had resolved to go
there also, dressed as a young nobleman, and make his acquaintance. She
had fallen in love with him at sight, and had never found an opportunity
to speak to him.

"I shall get two sets of rooms in different parts of the town," she said
to me. "In one I shall live as Aurora de Guzman, with my maid, who must
play the part of an aunt. In the other, I shall be Don Felix de Mendoc,
a gallant cavalier, and you must be my valet."

We set off for Salamanca at daybreak, and arrived before Don Luis.
Aurora took a furnished mansion in the fashionable quarter, and I called
at the principal inns, and found the one where Don Luis had arranged to
stay, Aurora then hid her pretty brown tresses under a wig, and put on a
dashing cavalier's costume, and came and engaged a room at the place
where her lover was.

"So you have come to study at the university, sir?" said the innkeeper.
"How lucky! Another gallant young nobleman has just taken a room here
for the same purpose. You will be able to dine together and entertain
one another."

He introduced his two guests, and they quickly became fast friends.

"Do you know, Don Felix, you're uncommonly good-looking," said Don Luis,
as they sat talking over the wine. "Between us we shall set on fire the
hearts of the pretty girls of Salamanca."

"There's really a lovely girl staying in the town," said my mistress.
"She's a cousin of mine, Aurora de Guzman. We are said to resemble each
other in a remarkable way."

"Then she must be a beautiful creature," said Don Luis, "for you have
fine, regular features and an admirable colour. When can I see this
paragon?"

"This afternoon, if you like," said my mistress.

They went together to the mansion, where the maid received them, dressed
as an elderly noblewoman.

"I'm very sorry, Don Felix," said the maid, "but my niece has a bad
headache, and she has gone to lie down."

"Very well," said the pretended cousin. "I will just introduce my
friend, Don Luis, to you. Tell Aurora we will call to-morrow morning."

Don Luis was much interested in the lovely girl whom he had not been
able to see. He talked about her to his companion late into the night.
The next day, as they were about to set out to visit her, I rushed in,
as arranged, with a note for my mistress.

"What a nuisance!" she said. "Here is some urgent business I must at
once attend to. Don Luis, just run round and tell my cousin that I
cannot come until this afternoon!"

Don Luis retired to put some final touches to his dress, and my mistress
hurried off with me to her mansion, and there, with the help of her
maid, she quickly got into her proper clothes. She received Don Luis
very kindly, and they talked together for quite two hours. Don Luis then
went away, and Aurora slipped into her cavalier's costume and met him at
the inn.

"My dear Felix," said Don Luis, "your cousin is an adorable lady. I'm
madly in love with her. If I can only win her, I'll marry and settle
down on my estates."

Aurora gazed at him very tenderly, and then, with a gay laugh, she shook
off her wig and let her curls fall about her shoulders.

Don Felix knelt at her feet and kissed her hands, crying, "Oh, my
beautiful Aurora! Do you really care for me? How happy we shall be
together!"

The two lovers resolved to return at once to Madrid, and make
preparations for the wedding. At the end of a fortnight my mistress was
married, and I again set out on my travels with a well-lined purse.


_III.--Old Acquaintances_


I had always had a particular desire to see the famous town of Toledo. I
arrived there in three days, and lodged at a good inn, where, by reason
of my fine dress, I passed for a gentleman of importance. But I soon
discovered that Toledo was one of those places in which it is easier to
spend money than to gain it.

So I set out for Aragon. On the road I fell in with a young cavalier
going in the same direction. He was a man of a frank and pleasant
disposition, and we soon got on a friendly footing. His name, I learned,
was Don Alfonso; he was, like me, seeking for means of livelihood.

It came on to rain very heavily as we were skirting the base of a
mountain, and, in looking about for some place of shelter, we found a
cave in which an aged, white-haired hermit was living. At first he was
not pleased to see us, but something about me seemed to strike him
favourably, and he then gave us a kind welcome. We tied our horses to a
tree, and prepared to stay the night. The hermit began to talk to us in
a very pious and edifying way, when another aged anchorite ran into the
cave, and said, "It is all over; we're discovered. The police are after
us!"

The first hermit tore off his white beard and his hair, and took off his
long robe, showing a doublet beneath; and his companion followed his
example. In a few moments they were changed into a couple of young men
whose faces I recognised.

"Raphael! Lamela! What mischief are you working now? And where are my
thousand ducats, you rascals?"

"Ah, Gil Blas, I knew you at once!" said Raphael blandly. "One comes on
old acquaintances when one least expects them. I know we treated you
badly. But the money's gone, and can't be recovered. Come with us, and
we will soon make up to you all that you have lost."

It was certainly unwise to remain in a cave which the police were about
to visit, and, as the rain had ceased and the night had fallen, we all
set out in the darkness to find some better shelter. We took the road to
Requena, and came to a forest, where we saw a light shining in the
distance. Don Alfonso crept up to the spot, and saw four men sitting
round a fire, eating and quarrelling. It was easy to see what they were
quarrelling about. An old gentleman and a lovely young girl were bound
to a tree close by, and by the tree stood a fine carriage.

"They are brigands," said Alfonso, when he returned, "who have captured
a nobleman and his daughter, I think. Let us attack them. In order, no
doubt, to prevent their quarrelling turning into a deadly affray, they
have piled all their arms in a heap some yards away from the fire. So
they cannot make much of a fight."

And they did not. We quietly surrounded them, and shot them down before
they were able to move. Don Alfonso and I then set free the captives,
while Raphael and Lamela rifled the pockets of the dead robbers.

"I am the Count of Polan, and this is my daughter Seraphina," said the
old gentleman. "If you will help me to get my carriage ready, I will
drive back to an inn which we passed before entering the forest."

When we came to the inn, the count begged us all to stay with him.
Raphael and Lamela, however, were afraid that the police would track
them out; Don Alfonso, who had been talking very earnestly to Seraphina,
was, for some strange reason, also unwilling to remain; so I fell in
with their views.

"Why didn't you stay?" I said to Don Alfonso.

"I was afraid the count would recognise me, as Seraphina has done," he
said. "I killed his son in a duel, just when I was trying to win
Seraphina's love. Heaven grant that the service I have now rendered will
make him inclined to forgive me."

The day was breaking when we reached the mountains around Requena. There
we hid till nightfall, and then we made our way in the darkness to the
town of Xeloa. We found a quiet, shady retreat beside a woodland stream,
and there we stayed, while Lamela went into the town to buy provisions.
He did not return until evening. He brought back some extraordinary
things.

He opened a great bundle containing a long black mantle and robe,
another costume, a roll of parchment, a quill, and a great seal in green
wax.

"Do you remember the trick you played on Camilla?" he said to me. "I
have a better scheme than that. Listen. As I was buying some provisions
at a cook-shop, a man entered in a great rage and began abusing a
certain Samuel Simon, a converted Jew and a cruel usurer. He had ruined
many merchants at Xeloa, and all the towns-people would like to see him
ruined in turn. Then, my dear Gil Blas, I remembered your clever trick,
and brought these clothes so that we might visit this Jew dressed up as
the officers of the Inquisition."

After we had made a good meal, Lamela put on the robe and mantle of the
Inquisitor, Raphael the costume of the registrar, and I took the part of
a sergeant of the police. We walked very solemnly to the house of the
usurer; Simon opened the door himself, and started back in affright.

"Master Simon," said Lamela, in a grave imperative tone of voice, "I
command you, on behalf of the Holy Inquisition, to deliver to these
officers the key of your cabinet. I must have your private papers
closely examined. Serious charges of heresy have been brought against
you."

The usurer grew pale with fear. Far from doubting any deceit on our
part, he imagined that some of his enemies had informed the Holy Office
against him. He obeyed without the least resistance, and opened his
cabinet.

"I am glad to see," said Lamela, "that you do not rebel against the
orders of the Holy Inquisition. Retire now to another room, and let me
carry out the examination without interference."

Simon withdrew into a farther room, and Lamela and Raphael quickly
searched in the cabinet for the strongbox. It was unlocked, being so
full of money that it could not be closed. We filled all our pockets;
then our hose; and then stuffed the coins in any place in our clothes
that would hold them. After this, we closed the cabinet, and our
pretended Inquisitor sealed it down with a great seal of green wax, and
said very solemnly to the usurer, "Master Simon, I have sealed your
cabinet with the seal of the Holy Office. Let me find it untouched when
I return to-morrow morning to inform you of the decision arrived at in
your case."

The next morning we were a good many leagues from Xeloa. At breakfast,
we counted over the money which we had taken from Simon. It came to
three thousand ducats, of which we each took a fourth part. Raphael and
Lamela then desired to carry out a similar plot against someone in the
next town; but Don Alfonso and I would not agree to take any part in the
affair, and set out for Toledo. There, Don Alfonso was reconciled to the
Count of Polan, and soon afterwards he and Seraphina were happily
married.

I retired to Lirias, a pleasant estate that Don Alfonso gave me, and
there I married happily, and grew old among my children. In the reign of
Philip IV., I went to the court, and served under the great minister,
Olivarez. But I have now returned to Lirias, and I do not intend to go
to Madrid again.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHARLES LEVER


Charles O'Malley


     The author of "Charles O'Malley," perhaps the most typical of
     Irish novelists, was of English descent on his father's side.
     But Charles James Lever himself was Irish by birth, being born
     at Dublin on August 31, 1806--Irish in sentiment and
     distinctly Irish in temperament. In geniality and extravagance
     he bore much resemblance to the gay, riotous spirits he has
     immortalised in his books. "Of all the men I have ever
     encountered," says Trollope, "he was the surest fund of
     drollery." Lever was intended for medicine; but financial
     difficulties forced him to return to literature. His first
     story was "Harry Lorrequer," published in 1837. It was
     followed in 1840 by "Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dragoon,"
     which established his reputation as one of the first humorists
     of his day. The story is the most popular of all Lever's
     works, and in many respects the most characteristic. The
     narrative is told with great vigour, and the delineation of
     character is at once subtle and life-like. Lever died on June
     1, 1872.


_I.--O'Malley of O'Malley Castle_


It was in O'Malley Castle, a very ruinous pile of incongruous masonry
that stood in a wild and dreary part of Galway, that I passed my infancy
and youth. When a mere child I was left an orphan to the care of my
worthy uncle. My father, whose extravagance had well sustained the
family reputation, had squandered a large and handsome property in
contesting elections for his native county, and in keeping up that
system of unlimited hospitality for which Ireland in general, and Galway
more especially, was renowned. The result was, as might be expected,
ruin and beggary. When he died the only legacy he left to his brother
was a boy of four years of age, entreating him, with his last breath,
"Be anything you like to him, Godfrey, but a father--or, at least, such
a one as I have proved."

Godfrey O'Malley sometime previous had lost his wife, and when this new
trust was committed to him he resolved never to re-marry, but to rear me
as his own child.

From my earliest years his whole anxiety was to fit me for the part of a
country gentleman, as he regarded that character--_viz._, I rode boldly
with the fox-hounds; I was about the best shot within twenty miles; I
could swim the Shannon at Holy Island; I drove four-in-hand better than
the coachman himself; and from finding a hare to hooking a salmon my
equal could not be found from Killaloe to Banagher. These were the
staple of my endowments; besides which, the parish priest had taught me
a little Latin, a little French, and a little geometry.

When I add to this portraiture of my accomplishments that I was nearly
six feet high, with more than a common share of activity and strength
for my years, and no inconsiderable portion of good looks, I have
finished my sketch, and stand before my reader.

We were in the thick of canvassing the county for the parliamentary seat
in my uncle's interest. O'Malley Castle was the centre of operations;
while I, a mere stripling, and usually treated as a boy, was entrusted
with an important mission, and sent off to canvass a distant relation,
Mr. Matthew Blake, who might possibly be approachable by a younger
branch of the family, with whom he had never any collision.

I arrived at his house while the company were breakfasting. After the
usual shaking of hands and hearty greetings were over, I was introduced
to Sir George Dashwood, a tall and singularly handsome man of about
fifty, and his daughter, Lucy Dashwood.

If the sweetest blue eyes that ever beamed beneath a forehead of snowy
whiteness, over which dark brown and waving hair fell, less in curls
than masses of locky richness, could only have known what wild work they
were making of my poor heart, Miss Dashwood, I trust, would have looked
at her teacup or her muffin rather than at me, as she actually did, on
that fatal morning.

Beside her sat a tall, handsome man of about five-and-thirty, or perhaps
forty, years of age, with a most soldierly air, who, as I was presented
to him, scarcely turned his head, and gave me a half-nod of unequivocal
coldness. As I turned from the lovely girl, who had received me with
marked courtesy, to the cold air and repelling hauteur of the
dark-browed captain, the blood rushed throbbing to my forehead; and as I
walked to my place at the table, I eagerly sought his eye, to return him
a look of defiance and disdain, proud and contemptuous as his own.

Captain Hammersly, however, never took further notice of me, and I
formed a bitter resolution, which I endeavoured to carry into effect
during the next day's hunt. Mounted on my best horse, I deliberately led
him across the worst and roughest country, river, and hills, and walls,
and ditches, till I finished up with a broken head and he with a broken
arm, and a horse that had to be slaughtered.

On the fourth day after this adventure I was able to enter the
drawing-room again. Sir George Dashwood made the kindest inquiries about
my health.

"They tell me you are to be a lawyer, Mr. O'Malley," said he; "and, if
so, I must advise you to take better care of your headpiece."

"A lawyer, papa? Oh, dear me!" said his daughter. "I should never have
thought of his being anything so stupid."

"Why, silly girl, what would you have a man to be?"

"A dragoon, to be sure, papa," said the fond girl, as she pressed her
arm around him, and looked up in his face with an expression of mingled
pride and affection.

That word sealed my destiny.


_II.--I Join the Dragoons_


I had been at Mr. Blake's house five days before I recollected my
uncle's interests; but with one hole in my head and some half-dozen in
my heart my memory was none of the best. But that night at dinner I
discovered, to my savage amazement, that Mr. Blake and all the company
were there in the interest of the opposition candidate, and that Sir
George Dashwood was their candidate. In my excitement I hurled my
wineglass at the head of one of the company who expressed himself in
regard to my uncle in a manner insulting to a degree. In the duel which
followed I shot my opponent.

I had sprung into man's estate. In three short days I had fallen deeply,
desperately, in love, and had wounded, if not killed, an antagonist in a
duel. As I meditated on these things I was aroused by the noise of
horses' feet. I opened the window, and beheld no less a person than
Captain Hammersly. I begged of him to alight and come in.

"I thank you very much," he said; "but, in fact, my hours are now
numbered here. I have just received an order to join my regiment. I
could not, however, leave the country without shaking hands with you. I
owe you a lesson in horsemanship, and I'm only sorry that we are not to
have another day together. I'm sorry you are not coming with us."

"Would to heaven I were!" said I, with an earnestness that almost made
my brain start.

"Then why not?"

"Unfortunately, my worthy uncle, who is all to me in this world, would
be quite alone if I were to leave him; and, although he has never said
so, I know he dreads the possibility of my suggesting such a thing."

"Devilish hard; but I believe you are right. Something, however, may
turn up yet to alter his mind. And so good-bye, O'Malley, good-bye."

During the contest for the seat--which was frankly fought in pitched
battles and scrimmages, and by corruption and perjury--I managed to save
Miss Dashwood's life. When polling-time came, Sir George found the
feeling against him was so strong, and we were so successful in beating
his voters out of the town, in spite of police and soldiers, that he
resigned his candidature.

Afterwards I spent some time in Dublin, nominally in preparation for the
law, at Trinity College. But my college career convinced my uncle that
my forte did not lie in the classics, and Sir George succeeded in
inducing him to yield to my wishes, and interested himself so strongly
for me that I obtained a cornetcy in the 14th Light Dragoons a week
before the regiment sailed for Portugal. On the morning of my last day
in Dublin I met Miss Dashwood riding in the park. For some minutes I
could scarcely speak. At last I plucked up courage a little, and said,
"Miss Dashwood, I have wished most anxiously, before I parted for ever
with those to whom I owe already so much, that I should, at least, speak
my gratitude."

"But when do you think of going?"

"To-morrow. Captain Power, under whose command I am, has received orders
to embark immediately for Portugal."

I thought--perhaps it was but a thought--that her cheek grew somewhat
paler as I spoke; but she remained silent.

Fixing my eyes full upon her I spoke.

"Lucy, I feel I must confess it, cost what it may--I love you. I know
the fruitlessness, the utter despair, that awaits such a sentiment. My
own heart tells me that I am not, cannot be, loved in return. I ask for
nothing; I hope for nothing. I see that you at least pity me. Nay, one
word more. Do not, when time and distance have separated us, think that
the expressions I now use are prompted by a mere sudden ebullition of
boyish feeling; for I swear to you that my love to you is the source and
spring of every action in my life, and, when I cease to love you, I
shall cease to feel. And now, farewell; farewell for ever."

I pressed her hand to my lips, gave one long, last look, turned my horse
rapidly away, and, ere a minute, was out of sight.


_III.--I Smell Gunpowder_


What a contrast to the dull monotony of our life at sea did the scene
present which awaited us on landing at Lisbon! The whole quay was
crowded with hundreds of people, eagerly watching the vessel which bore
from her mast the broad ensign of Britain.

The din and clamour of a mighty city mingled with the far-off sounds of
military music; and, in the vistas of the opening streets, masses of
troops might be seen, in marching order. All betokened the near approach
of war.

On the morning after we landed, Power rode off with dispatches to
headquarters, leaving me to execute two commissions with which he had
been entrusted--a packet for Hammersly from Miss Dashwood and an epistle
from a love-sick midshipman who could not get on shore, to the Senhora
Inez da Silviero. I took up the packet for Hammersly with a heavy heart.
Alas! thought I, how fatally may my life be influenced by it!

The loud call of a cavalry trumpet roused me, and I passed out into the
street for the morning's inspection. The next day I delivered the packet
to the Senhora Inez, by whom I was warmly received--rather more on my
own account than on that of the little midshipman, I fancied. Certainly
I never beheld a being more lovely, and I found myself paying her some
attentions. Yet she was nothing to me. It is true, she had, as she most
candidly informed me, a score of admirers, among whom I was not even
reckoned; she was evidently a coquette. On May 7, 1809, we set off for
Oporto. The 14th were detailed to guard the pass to the Douro until the
reinforcements were up, and then I saw my first engagement. Never till
now, as we rode to the charge, did I know how far the excitement reaches
when, man to man, sabre to sabre, we ride forward to the battlefield. On
we went, the loud shout of "Forward!" still ringing in our ears. One
broken, irregular discharge from the French guns shook the head of our
advancing column, but stayed us not as we galloped madly on.

I remember no more. The din, the smoke, the crash--the cry for quarter,
mingled with the shout of victory, the flying enemy--are all commingled
in my mind, but leave no trace of clearness or connection between them;
and it was only when the column wheeled to re-form that I awoke from my
trance of maddening excitement, and perceived that we had carried the
position and cut off the guns of the enemy.

The scene was now beyond anything, maddening in its interest. From the
walls of Oporto the English infantry poured forth in pursuit; while the
whole river was covered with boats, as they still continued to cross
over. The artillery thundered from the Sierra, to protect the landing,
for it was even still contested in places; and the cavalry, charging in
flank, swept the broken ranks and bore down their squares. Then a final
impetuous charge carried the day.

From that fight I got my lieutenancy, and then was sent off by Sir
Arthur Wellesley on special duty to the Lusitanian Legion in
Alcantara--a flattering position opened to my enterprise. Before I set
out, I was able to deliver Miss Dashwood's packet to Captain Hammersly,
barely recovered from a sabre wound. His agitation and his manner in
receiving it puzzled me greatly, though my own agitation was scarcely
less.

When I returned after a month with the Legion, during which my services
were of no very distinguished character, I found a letter from Galway
which saddened my thoughts greatly. A lawsuit had gone against my uncle,
and what I had long foreseen was gradually accomplishing--the wreck of
an old and honoured house. And I could only look on and watch the
progress of our downfall without power to arrest it.


_IV.--Shipwrecked Hopes_


Having been sent to the rear with dispatches, I did not reach Talavera
till two days' hard fighting had left the contending armies without
decided advantage on either side.

I had scarcely joined my regiment before the 14th were ordered to
charge.

We came on at a trot. The smoke of the cannonade obscured everything
until we had advanced some distance, but suddenly the splendid panorama
of the battlefield broke upon us.

"Charge! Forward!" cried the hoarse voice of our colonel; and we were
upon them. The French infantry, already broken by the withering musketry
of our people, gave way before us, and, unable to form a square, retired
fighting, but in confusion and with tremendous loss, to their position.
One glorious cheer from left to right of our line proclaimed the
victory, while a deafening discharge of artillery from the French
replied to this defiance, and the battle was over.

For several months after the battle of Talavera my life presented
nothing which I feel worth recording. Our good fortune seemed to have
deserted us when our hopes were highest; for from the day of that
splendid victory we began our retrograde movement upon Portugal. Pressed
hard by overwhelming masses of the enemy, we saw the fortresses of
Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida fall successively into their hands, and
retired, mystified and disappointed, to Torres Vedras.

Wounded in a somewhat scatter-brain night expedition to the lines of
Ciudad Rodrigo, my campaigning--for some time, at least--was concluded;
for my wound began to menace the loss of my arm, and I was ordered back
to Lisbon. Fred Power was the first man I saw, and almost the first
thing he told me was that Sir George Dashwood was in Lisbon, and that
his daughter was with him. And then, with conflicting feelings, I found
that all Lisbon mentioned my name in connection with the senhora, and
Sir George himself, in appointing me an aide-de-camp, threw increased
gloom over my thoughts by referring to the report Power had spoken of.
My torment was completed by meeting Miss Dashwood in the Senhora Inez's
house under circumstances which led to treat me with stiff, formal
courtesy.

The next night a letter from a Dublin friend reached me which told me
that "Hammersly had got his _congé_."

Here, then, was the solution of the whole chaos of mystery; here the
full explanation of what had puzzled my aching brain for many a night
long. His own were the letters I had delivered into Hammersly's hands. A
flood of light poured at once across all the dark passages of my
history; and Lucy, too--dare I think of her? What if she had really
cared for me! Oh, the bitter agony of that thought! To think that all my
hopes were shipwrecked with the very land in sight.

I sprang to my feet with some sudden impulse, but, as I did so, the
blood rushed madly to my head, and I fell. My arm was again broken, and
ere day I was delirious.

Hours, days, weeks rolled over, and when I returned to consciousness and
convalescence I found I had been removed to the senhora's villa, and to
her I owed, in a large part, my recovery. I was deeper in my dilemma
than ever. Nevertheless, before I returned to the front, I found an
opportunity to vindicate to Lucy my unshaken faith, reconciling the
conflicting evidences with the proofs I proffered of my attachment. We
were interrupted before I could learn how my protestations were
received. Power, I found soon after, was the one favoured by the fair
Inez's affections.


_V.--A Desolate Hearth_


It is not my intention, were I even adequate to the task, to trace with
anything like accuracy the events of the war at this period. In fact, to
those who, like myself, were performing duties of a mere subaltern
character, the daily movements of our own troops, not to speak of the
continual changes of the enemy, were perfectly unknown, and an English
newspaper was more ardently longed for in the Peninsula than by the most
eager crowd of a London coffee-room.

So I pass over the details of the retreat of the French, and the great
battle of Fuentes D'Oñoro. In the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo, that death
struggle of vengeance and despair, I gained some notoriety in leading a
party of stormers through a broken embrasure, and found myself under
Lord Wellington's displeasure for having left my duties as aide-de-camp.
However, the exploit gained me leave to return to England, and the
additional honour of carrying dispatches to the Prince Regent.

When I arrived in London with the glorious news of the capture of Ciudad
Rodrigo, the kind and gracious notice of the prince obtained me
attentions on all sides. Indeed, so flattering was the reception I met
with, and so overwhelming the civility showered on me, that it required
no small effort on my part not to believe myself as much a hero as they
would make me. An eternal round of dinners, balls, and entertainments
filled up an entire week.

At last I obtained the Prince Regent's permission to leave London, and a
few mornings after landed in Cork. Hastening my journey, I was walking
the last eight miles--my chaise having broken down--when suddenly my
attention was caught by a sound which, faint from the distance, scarce
struck upon my ear. Thinking it probably some delusion of my heated
imagination, I rose to push forward; but at the moment a slight breeze
stirred, and a low, moaning sound swelled upward, increasing each
instant as it came. It grew louder as the wind bore it towards me, and
now falling, now swelling, it burst forth into one loud, prolonged cry
of agony and grief. O God, it was the death-wail!

My suspense became too great to bear; I dashed madly forward. As I
neared the house, the whole approach was crowded with carriages and
horsemen. At the foot of the large flight of steps stood the black and
mournful hearse, its plumes nodding in the breeze, and, as the sounds
without sank into sobs of bitterness and woe, the black pall of a
coffin, borne on men's shoulders, appeared at the door, and an old man,
a life-long friend of my uncle, across whose features a struggle for
self-mastery was playing, held out his hand to enforce silence. I sprang
toward him, choked by agony. He threw his arms around me, and muttering
the words, "Poor Godfrey!" pointed to the coffin.

Mine was a desolate hearth. In respect to my uncle's last wishes, I sold
out of the army and settled down to a quieter life than the clang of
battle, the ardour of the march. Gradually new impressions and new
duties succeeded; and, ere four months elapsed, the quiet monotony of my
daily life healed up the wounds of my suffering, and a sense of content,
if not of happiness, crept gently over me, and I ceased to long for the
clash of arms and the loud blast of the trumpet.

But three years later a regiment of infantry marching to Cork for
embarkation for the Continent after Bonaparte's return from Elba, roused
all the eagerness of my old desires, and I volunteered for service
again.

A few days after I was in Brussels, and attending that most memorable
and most exciting entertainment, the Duchess of Richmond's ball, on the
night of June 15, 1815. Lucy Dashwood was there, beautiful beyond
anything I had ever seen her. When the word came of the advance of
Napoleon I was sent off with the major-general's orders, and then joined
the night march to Quatre Bras. There I fell into the hands of a French
troop and missed the fighting, though I saw Napoleon himself, and had
the good fortune to effect the escape of Sir George Dashwood, who lay a
prisoner under sentence of death in the same place as myself. Early in
the day of Waterloo I contrived my own escape, and was able to give Lord
Wellington much information as to the French movements.

After the battle I wandered back into Brussels and learned that we had
gained the day. As I came into the city Sir George met me and took me
into his hotel, where were Power and the senhora, about to be married.
Wounded by the innocent raillery of my friends, I escaped into an empty
room and buried my head in my hands. Oh, how often had the phantom of
happiness passed within my reach, but glided from my grasp!

"Oh, Lucy, Lucy!" I exclaimed aloud. "But for you, and a few words
carelessly spoken, I had never trod the path of ambition whose end has
been the wreck of all my happiness! But for you I had never loved so
fondly! But for you, and I had never been--"

"A soldier, you would say," whispered a soft voice as a light hand
gently touched my shoulder. "No, Mr. O'Malley; deeply grateful as I am
to you for the service you once rendered myself, bound as I am by every
tie of thankfulness by the greater one to my father, yet do I feel that
in the impulse I have given to your life I have done more to repay my
debt to you than by all the friendship, all the esteem I owe you. If,
indeed, by any means, you became a soldier, then I am indeed proud."

"Alas! Lucy--Miss Dashwood, I would say--how has my career fulfilled the
promise that gave it birth? For you, and you only, to gain your
affection, I became a soldier. And now, and now----"

"And now," said she, while her eyes beamed upon me with a very flood of
tenderness, "is it nothing that I have glowed with pride at triumphs I
could read of, but dared not share in? I have thought of you. I have
dreamed, I have prayed for you."

"Alas! Lucy, but not loved me."

Her hand, which had fallen upon mine, trembled violently. I pressed my
lips upon it, but she moved it not. I dared to look up; her head was
turned away, but her heaving bosom betrayed emotion.

Our eyes met--I cannot say what it was--but in a moment the whole
current of my thoughts was changed. Her look was bent upon me, beaming
with softness and affection; her hand gently pressed my own, and her
lips murmured my name.

The door burst open at this moment, and Sir George Dashwood appeared.
Lucy turned one fleeting look upon her father, and fell fainting into my
arms.

"God bless you, my boy!" said the old general as he hurriedly wiped a
tear from his eye. "I am now indeed a happy father."

       *       *       *       *       *




Tom Burke of "Ours"


     In 1840 Charles Lever, on an invitation from Sir John
     Crompton, Secretary to the British Embassy in Belgium, forsook
     Ireland for Brussels, where for a time he followed his
     profession of medicine. Two years later an offer of the
     editorship of the "Dublin University Magazine" recalled him to
     Ireland, when he definitely abandoned a medical career and
     settled down to literature permanently. The first fruit of
     that appointment was "Tom Burke of Ours," published, after
     running serially in the magazine, in 1844. It is more serious
     in tone than any of his preceding works; in it the author
     utilises the rich colouring gained from his long residence in
     France, and the book is less remarkable for the complex, if
     vigorous, story it contains than for its graphic and exciting
     pictures of men and events in the campaigns of Napoleon Many
     of its episodes are conceived in the true spirit of romance.


_I.--The Boy Rebel_


"Be advised by me," said De Meudon earnestly; "do not embark with these
Irish rebels in their enterprise! They have none. Their only daring is
some deed of rapine and murder. No; liberty is not to be achieved by
such bands as these. France is your country--there liberty has been won;
there lives one great man whose notice, were it but passingly bestowed,
is fame."

He sank back exhausted. The energy of his speech was too great for his
weak and exhausted frame to bear. Captain de Meudon had come to Ireland
in 1798 to aid in the rebellion; he had seen its failure, but had
remained in Ireland trying vainly to give to the disaffection some
military organization. He had realized the hopelessness of his efforts.
He was ill, and very near to death. Now I stood by his bedside in a
little cottage in Glenmalure.

Boy as I was, I had already seen enough to make me a rebel in feeling
and in action. I had stood a short time before the death-bed of my
father, who disliked me, and who had left nearly all his property to my
elder brother, who was indifferent to me. My father had indentured me as
apprentice to his lawyer, and sooner than submit to the rule of this
man--the evil genius of our family--I had taken flight. The companion of
my wanderings was Darby M'Keown, the piper, the cleverest and cunningest
of the agents of rebellion. Then I had met De Meudon, who had turned my
thoughts and ambitions into another channel.

My companion grew steadily worse.

"Take my pocket-book," he whispered; "there is a letter you'll give my
sister Marie. There are some five or six thousand francs--they are
yours; you must be a pupil at the Polytechnique at Paris. If it should
be your fortune to speak with General Bonaparte, say to him that when
Charles de Meudon was dying--in exile--with but one friend left--he held
his portrait to his lips, and, with his last breath, he kissed it."

A shivering ran through his limbs--a sigh--and all was still. He was
dead.

"Halloa, there!" said a voice. The door opened, and a sergeant entered.
"I have a warrant to arrest Captain de Meudon, a French officer who is
concealed here. Where is he?"

I pointed to the bed.

"I arrest you in the king's name!" said the sergeant, approaching.
"What----" He started back in horror. "He is dead!"

Then entered one I had seen before--Major Barton, the most pitiless of
the government's agents in suppressing insurrection.

The sergeant whispered to him, and his eye ranged the little chamber
till it fell on me.

"Ha!" he cried. "You here! Sergeant, here's one prisoner for you, at any
rate."

Two soldiers seized me, and I was marched away towards Dublin. About
noon the party halted, and the soldiers lay down and chatted on a patch
of grass, while my own thoughts turned sadly back to the friend I had
known.

Suddenly I heard a song sung by a voice I knew, and afterwards a loud
clapping of hands. Darby M'Keown was there in the midst of the soldiers,
and as I turned to look at him, my hand came in contact with a
clasp-knife. I managed with it to free my arms from the ropes that
fastened them, but what was to be done next?

"I didn't think much of that song of yours," said one of the soldiers.
"Give us 'The British Grenadiers.'"

"I never heard them play but onst, sir," said Darby, meekly, "and they
were in such a hurry I couldn't pick up the tune."

"What d'you mean?"

"'Twas the day but one after the French landed, and the British
Grenadiers was running away."

The party sprang to their legs, and a shower of curses fell upon the
piper.

"And sure," continued Darby, "'twasn't my fault av they took to their
heels. Wouldn't anyone run for his life av he had the opportunity?"

These words were uttered in a raised voice, and I took the hint. While
Darby was scuffling with the soldiers, I slipped away.

For miles I pressed forward without turning, and in the evening I found
myself in Dublin. The union with England was being debated in the
Parliament House; huge and angry crowds raged without. Remembering the
tactics De Meudon had taught me, I sought to organize the crowd in a
kind of military formation against the troops; but a knock on the head
with a musket-butt ended my labours, and I knew nothing more until I
came to myself in the quarters of an old chance acquaintance--Captain
Bubbleton.

Here, in the house of this officer--an eccentric and impecunious man,
but a most loyal friend--I was discovered by Major Barton and dragged to
prison. I was released by the intervention of my father's lawyer, who
claimed me as his apprentice.

For weeks I lived with Captain Bubbleton and his brother officers, and
nothing could be more cordial than their treatment of me. "Tom Burke of
'Ours,'" the captain used proudly to call me. Only one officer held
aloof from me, and from all Irishmen--Montague Crofts--through whom it
came about that I left Ireland.

One day an uncouth and ragged woman entered the barracks, and addressed
me. It was Darby M'Keown, and he brought me nothing less precious than
De Meudon's pocket-book, which had been taken from me, and had been
picked up by him on the road. A few minutes later Bubbleton lost a sum
at cards to Crofts; knowing he could not pay, I passed a note quietly to
him. When Bubbleton had gone, Crofts held up the note before me. It was
a French note of De Meudon's! I demanded my property back. He refused,
and threatened to inform against me. On my seeking to prevent him from
leaving the room, he drew his sword, and wounded me; but in the nick of
time a blow from a strong arm laid him senseless--dead, perhaps--on the
floor.

"We must be far from this by daybreak," whispered Darby.

I walked out of the barracks as steadily as I could. For all I knew, I
was implicated in murder--and Ireland was no place for me. In a few days
I stood on the shores of France.


_II.--A Blow for the Emperor_


By means of a letter of introduction to the head of the Polytechnique,
which De Meudon had placed for me in his pocket-book, I was able to
enter that military college, and, after a spell of earnest study, I was
appointed to a commission in the Eighth Hussars. Proud as I was to
become a soldier of France, yet I could not but feel that I was a
foreigner, and almost friendless--unlucky, indeed, in the choice of the
few friends I possessed. Chief of them was the Marquis de Beauvais,
concerning whom I soon made two discoveries--that he was in the thick of
an intrigue against the republic I served, and its First Consul, and
that he was in love with Marie de Meudon, my dead friend's sister.

To her, as soon as an opportunity came, I gave the news of her brother's
end, and his last message. She was terribly affected; and the love we
bore in common to the dead, and her own wonderful beauty, aroused in me
a passion that was not the less fervent because I felt it was almost
hopeless. I did not dare to ask her love, but I had her friendship
without asking. She it was who warned me of the dangerous intrigues of
De Beauvais and his associates. She it was who, when I fell a victim to
their intrigues, laboured with General d'Auvergne, who had befriended me
while I was at college, to restore me to liberty.

I had heard that De Beauvais and his fellow royalists were plotting in a
château near Versailles, and that a scheme was afoot to capture them. In
hot haste I rode to the château, hoping secretly to warn my friend. He
did indeed escape, but it was my lot to be caught with the conspirators.
For the second time in my short life I saw the inside of a prison; I was
in danger of the guillotine; despair had almost overpowered me, when I
learnt that my friends had prevailed--my sword was returned to me. I
became again an officer of the army of him who was now emperor, and I
set forth determined to wipe out on the battlefield the doubts that
still clung to my loyalty. Marie de Meudon was wedded, by the emperor's
wish, to the gallant and beloved soldier on whose staff I proudly
served--General d'Auvergne.

In four vast columns of march, the mighty army poured into the heart of
Germany. But not until we reached Mannheim did we learn the object of
the war. We were to destroy the Austro-Russian coalition, and the first
blow was to be struck at Ulm. When Ulm had capitulated, General
d'Auvergne and his staff returned to Elchingen, and on the night when we
reached the place I was on the point of lying down supperless in the
open air, when I met an old acquaintance, Corporal Pioche, a giant
cuirassier of the Guard, who had fought in all Bonaparte's campaigns.

"Ah, mon lieutenant," said he, "not supped yet, I'll wager. Come along
with me; Mademoiselle Minette has opened her canteen!"

Presently we entered a large room, at one end of which sat a very pretty
Parisian brunette, who bade me a gracious welcome. The place was crowded
with captains and corporals, lieutenants and sergeants, all hobnobbing,
hand-shaking, and even kissing each other. "Each man brings what he can
find, drinks what he is able, and leaves the rest," remarked Pioche, and
invited me to take my share in the common stock.

All went well until I absent-mindedly called out, as if to a waiter, for
bread. There was a roar of laughter at my mistake, and a little
dark-whiskered fellow stuck his sword into a loaf and handed it to me.
As I took the loaf, he disengaged his point, and scratched the back of
my hand with it. Obviously an insult was intended.

"Ah, an accident, _morbleu_!" said he, with an impertinent shrug.

"So is this!" said I, as I seized his sword and smashed it across my
knee.

"It's François, _maitre d'armes_ of the Fourth," whispered Pioche; "one
of the cleverest duellists of the army."

I was hurried out to the court, one adviser counselling me to beware of
François's lunge in tierce, another to close on him at once, and so on.
For a long time after we had crossed swords, I remained purely on the
defensive; at last, after a desperate rally, he made a lunge at my
chest, which I received in the muscles of my back; and, wheeling round,
I buried my blade in his body.

François lingered for a long time between life and death, and for
several days I was incapacitated, tenderly nursed by Minette.

As soon as I was recovered the order came to advance.

Not many days passed ere the chance came to me for which I had longed--
the chance of striking a blow for the emperor. Hand-to-hand with the
Russian dragoons on the field of Austerlitz, sweeping along afterwards
with the imperial hosts in the full tide of victory, I learnt for the
first time the exhilaration of military glory; and I had the good
fortune to receive the emperor's favour--not only was I promoted, but I
was appointed to the _compagnie d'élite_ that was to carry the spoils of
victory to Paris.

A few weeks after my return to Paris, the whole garrison was placed in
review order to receive the wounded of Austerlitz.

As the emperor rode forward bareheaded to greet his maimed veterans, I
heard laughter among the staff that surrounded him. Stepping up, I saw
my old friend Pioche, who had been dangerously wounded, with his hand in
salute.

"Thou wilt not have promotion, nor a pension," said Napoleon, smiling.
"Hast any friend whom I could advance?"

"Yes," answered Pioche, scratching his forehead in confusion. "She is a
brave girl, and had she been a man----"

"Whom can he mean?"

"I was talking of Minette, our _vivandière_."

"Dost wish I should make her my aide-de-camp?" said Napoleon, laughing.

"_Parbleu_! Thou hast more ill-favoured ones among them," said Pioche,
with a glance at the grim faces of Rapp and Daru. "I've seen the time
when thou'd have said, 'Is it Minette that was wounded at the Adige and
stood in the square at Marengo? I'll give her the Cross of the Legion!'"

"And she shall have it!" said Napoleon. Minette advanced, and as the
emperor's own cross was attached to her buttonhole she sat pale as
death, overcome by her pride.

For two hours waggon after waggon rolled on, filled with the shattered
remnants of an army. Every eye brightened as the emperor drew near, the
feeblest gazed with parted lips when he spoke, and the faint cry of
"_Vive l'Empéreur_" passed along the line.


_III.--Broken Dreams_


Ere I had left Paris to join in the campaign against Prussia, I had
made, and broken off, another dangerous friendship. In the _compagnie
d'élite_ was an officer named Duchesne who took a liking to me--a
royalist at heart, and a cynic who was unfailing in his sneers at all
the doings of Napoleon. His attitude was detected, and he was forced to
resign his commission; and his slights upon the uniform I wore grew so
unbearable that I abandoned his company--little guessing the revenge he
would take upon me.

Once more the Grand Army was set in motion, and the hosts of France
pressed upon Russia from the south and west. Napoleon turned the enemy's
right flank, and compelled him to retire and concentrate his troops
around Jena, which was plainly to be the scene of a great battle.

My regiment was ordered on September 13, 1806, to proceed without delay
to the emperor's headquarters at Jena, and I was sent ahead to make
arrangements for quarters. In the darkness I lost my way, and came upon
an artillery battery stuck fast in a ravine, unable to move back or
forwards. The colonel was in despair, for the whole artillery of the
division was following him, and would inevitably be involved in the same
mishap. Wild shouting had been succeeded by a sullen silence, when a
stern voice called out: "Cannoniers, dismount; bring the torches to the
front!"

When the order was obeyed, the light of the firewood fell upon the
features of Napoleon himself. Instantly the work began afresh, directed
by the emperor with a blazing torch in his hand. Gradually the
gun-carriages were released, and began to move slowly along the ravine.
Napoleon turned, and rode off at full speed in the darkness towards
Jena. It was my destination, and I followed him.

He preceded me by about fifty paces--the greatest monarch of the world,
alone, his thoughts bent on the great events before him. On the top of
an ascent the brilliant spectacle of a thousand watch-fires met the eye.
Napoleon, lost in meditation, saw nothing, and rode straight into the
lines. Twice the challenge "_Qui vive?"_ rang out. Napoleon heard it
not. There was a bang of a musket, then another, and another. Napoleon
threw himself from his horse, and lay flat on the ground. I dashed up,
shouting, "The emperor! The emperor!" My horse was killed, and I was
wounded in the shoulder; but I repeated the cry until Napoleon stepped
calmly forward.

"Ye are well upon the alert, _mes enfants_," he said, smiling. Then,
turning to me, he asked quickly, "Are you wounded?"

"A mere scratch, sire."

"Let the surgeon see to it, and do you come to headquarters when you are
able."

In the morning I went to headquarters, but the emperor was busy;
seemingly I was forgotten. My regiment was out of reach, so, at the
invitation of my old duelling antagonist, François, I joined the
Voltigeurs. My friends could not understand why, after tasting the
delights of infantry fighting, I should wish to rejoin the hussars; but
I went back to my old regiment after the victory, and rode with it to
Berlin.

Soon after our arrival there I read my name in a general order among
those on whom the Cross of the Legion was to be conferred. On the
morning of the day when I was to receive the decoration, I was requested
to attend the bureau of the adjutant-general. There I was confronted
with Marshal Berthier, who held up a letter before me. I saw, by the
handwriting, it was Duchesne's.

"There, sir, that letter belongs to you," he said. "There is enough in
it to make your conduct the matter of a court-martial; but I am
satisfied that a warning will be sufficient. I need hardly say that you
will not receive the Cross of the Legion."

I glanced at the letter, and realised Duchesne's treachery. Knowing that
all doubtful letters were opened and read by the authorities, he had
sent me a letter bitterly attacking the emperor, and professing to
regard me as a royalist conspirator.

Exasperated, I drew my sword.

"I resign, sir," I said. "The career I can no longer follow honourably
and independently, I shall follow no more."

With a half-broken heart and faltering step, I regained my quarters; the
whole dream of life was over. Broken in spirit, I made my way slowly
back through Germany to Paris, and back to Ireland.


_IV.--The Call of the Sword_


On reaching my native country I found that my brother had died, and that
I had inherited an income of £4,000 a year. I sought to forget the past.
But a time came when I could resist the temptation no longer, and the
first fact I read of was the burning of Moscow. As misfortune followed
misfortune, an impulse came to me that it was useless to resist. My
heart was among the glittering squadrons of France. I thought suddenly,
was this madness? And the thought was followed by a resolve as sudden. I
wrote some lines to my agent, saddled my horse, and rode away. At
Verviers I offered my sword to the emperor as an old officer, and went
forward in charge of a squadron to Brienne. This place was held by the
Prussians, and Blücher and his Prussians were near at hand. Once more I
beheld the terrific spectacle of an attack by the army of Napoleon. But
alas! the attack was vain; I heard the trumpet sound a retreat. And as I
turned, I saw the body of an aged general officer among a heap of slain.
With a shriek of horror, I recognized the friend of my heart, General
d'Auvergne. Round his neck he wore a locket with a portrait of his
wife--Marie de Meudon. I detached the locket, and bade the dead a last
adieu.

Why should I dwell on a career of disaster? Retreat followed retreat,
until the fate of Napoleon's empire depended on the capture of the
bridge of Montereau. Regiment after regiment strove to cross, only to be
shattered and mangled by the tremendous fire of the enemy. Four sappers
at length laid a petard beneath the gate at the other side of the
bridge. But the fuse went out.

"This to the man who lights the fuse!" cried Napoleon, holding up his
great Cross of the Legion.

I snatched a burning match from a gunner beside me, and rushed across
the bridge. Partly protected by the high projecting parapet, I lit the
fuse, and then fell, shot in the chest. My senses reeled; for a time I
knew nothing; then I felt a flask pressed to my lips. I looked up, and
saw Minette. "Dear, dear girl, what a brave heart is thine!" said I, as
she pressed her handkerchief to my wound.

Her fingers became entangled in the ribbon of the general's locket that
I had tied round my neck, and by accident the locket opened. She became
deathly pale as she saw its contents; then, springing to her feet, she
gave me one glance--fleeting, but how full of sorrow!--and ran to the
middle of the bridge. The petard had done its work. She beckoned to the
column to come on; they answered with a cheer. Presently four grenadiers
fell to the rear, carrying between them the body of Minette.

They gave her a military funeral; and I was told that a giant soldier, a
corporal it was thought, kneeled down to kiss her before she was covered
with the earth, then lay quietly down in the grass. When they sought to
move him, he was stone dead.

When I had recovered from my wound, it was nothing to me that Napoleon,
besides giving me his Grand Cross, had made me general of brigade. For
Napoleon was no longer emperor, and I would not serve the king who
succeeded him. But ere I left France I saw Marie de Meudon, it might be,
I thought, for the last time. At the sight of her my old passion
returned, and I dared to utter it. I know not how incoherently the tale
was told; I can but remember the bursting feeling of my bosom, as she
placed her hand in mine, and said, "It is yours."

       *       *       *       *       *




M.G. LEWIS


Ambrosio, or the Monk


     There was a time--of no great duration--when Lewis' "Monk" was
     the most popular book in England. At the end of the eighteenth
     century the vogue of the "Gothic" romance of ghosts and
     mysteries was at its height; and this work, written in ten
     weeks by a young man of nineteen, caught the public fancy
     tremendously, and Matthew Gregory Lewis was straightway
     accepted as an adept at making the flesh creep. Taste changes
     in horrors, as in other things, and "Ambrosio, or The Monk,"
     would give nightmares to few modern readers. Its author, who
     was born in London on July 9, 1775, and published "The Monk"
     in 1795, wrote many supernatural tales and poems, and also
     several plays--one of which, "The Castle Spectre," caused the
     hair of Drury Lane audiences to stand on end for sixty
     successive nights, a long run in those days. Lewis, who was a
     wealthy man, sat for some years in Parliament; he had many
     distinguished friends among men of letters--Scott and Southey
     contributed largely to the first volume of his "Tales of
     Wonder." He died on May 13, 1818.


_I.--The Recluse_


The Church of the Capuchins in Madrid had never witnessed a more
numerous assembly than that which gathered to hear the sermon of
Ambrosio, the abbot. All Madrid rang with his praises. Brought
mysteriously to the abbey door while yet an infant, he had remained for
all the thirty years of his life within its precincts. All his days had
been spent in seclusion, study, and mortification of the flesh; his
knowledge was profound, his eloquence most persuasive; his only fault
was an excess of severity in judging the human feelings from which he
himself was exempted.

Among the crowd that pressed into the church were two women--one
elderly, the other young--who had seats offered them by two richly
habited cavaliers. The younger cavalier, Don Lorenzo, discovered such
exquisite beauty and sweetness in the maiden to whom he had given his
seat--her name was Antonia--that when she left the church he was
desperately in love with her.

He had promised to see his sister Agnes, a nun in the Convent of St.
Clare; so he remained in the church, whither the nuns were presently to
come to confess to the Abbot Ambrosio. As he waited he observed a man
wrapped up in a cloak hurriedly place a letter beneath a statue of St.
Francis, and then retire.

The nuns entered, and removed their veils out of respect to the saint to
whom the building was dedicated. One of the nuns dropped her rosary
beside the statue, and, as she stooped to pick it up, she dexterously
removed the letter and placed it in her bosom. As she did so, the light
flashed full in her face.

"Agnes, by Heaven!" cried Lorenzo.

He hastened after the cloaked stranger, and overtook him with drawn
sword. Suddenly the cloaked man turned and exclaimed, "Is it possible?
Lorenzo, have you forgotten Raymond de las Cisternas?"

"You here, marquis?" said the astonished Lorenzo. "You engaged in a
clandestine correspondence with my sister?"

"Her affections have ever been mine, and not the Church's. She entered
the convent tricked into a belief that I had been false to her; but I
have proved to her that it is otherwise. She had agreed to fly with me,
and my uncle, the cardinal, is securing for her a dispensation from her
vows."

Raymond told at length the story of his love, and at the end Lorenzo
said, "Raymond, there is no one on whom I would bestow Agnes more
willingly than on yourself. Pursue your design, and I will accompany
you."

Meanwhile, Agnes tremblingly advanced toward the abbot, and in her
nervousness let fall the precious letter. She turned to pick it up. The
abbot claimed and read it; it was the proposal of Agnes's escape with
her lover that very night.

"This letter must to the prioress!" said he sternly.

"Hold father, hold!" cried Agnes, flinging herself at his feet. "Be
merciful! Do not doom me to destruction!"

"Hence, unworthy wretch! Where is the prioress?"

The prioress, when she came, gazed upon Agnes with fury. "Away with her
to the convent!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, Raymond, save me, save me!" shrieked the distracted Agnes. Then,
casting upon the abbot a frantic look, "Hear me," she continued, "man of
a hard heart! Insolent in your yet unshaken virtue, your day of trial
will arrive. Think then upon your cruelty; and despair of pardon!"


_II.--The Abbot's Infatuation_


Leaving the church, Ambrosio bent his steps towards a grotto in the
abbey garden, formed in imitation of a hermitage. On reaching the
grotto, he found it already occupied. Extended upon one of the seats,
lay a man in a melancholy posture, lost in meditation. Ambrosio
recognised him; it was Rosario, his favourite novice, a youth of whose
origin none knew anything, save that his bearing, and such of his
features as accident had discovered--for he seemed fearful of being
recognised, and was continually muffled up in his cowl--proved him to be
of noble birth.

"You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy, Rosario," said
Ambrosio tenderly.

The youth flung himself at Ambrosio's feet.

"Oh, pity me!" he cried. "How willingly would I unveil to you my heart!
But I fear------"

"How shall I reassure you? Reveal to me what afflicts you, and I swear
that your secret shall be safe in my keeping."

"Father," said Rosario, in faltering accents, "I am a woman!"

The abbot stood still for a moment in astonishment, then turned hastily
to go. But the suppliant clasped his knees.

"Do not fly me!" she cried. "You are my beloved; but far is it from
Matilda's wish to draw you from the paths of virtue. All I ask is to see
you, to converse with you, to adore you!"

Confusion and resentment mingled in Ambrosio's mind with secret pleasure
that a young and lovely woman had thus for his sake abandoned the world.
But he recognised the need for austerity.

"Matilda," he said, "you must leave the abbey to-morrow."

"Cruel, cruel!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony. "Farewell,
my friend! And yet, methinks, I would fain bear with me some token of
your regard."

"What shall I give you?"

"Anything--one of those flowers will be sufficient."

Ambrosio approached a bush, and stooped to pick one of the flowers. He
uttered a piercing cry, and Matilda rushed towards him.

"A serpent," he said in a faint voice, "concealed among the roses."

With loud shrieks the distressed Matilda summoned assistance. Ambrosio
was carried to the abbey, his wound was examined, and the surgeon
pronounced that there was no hope. He had been stung by a centipedoro,
and would not live three days.

Mournfully the monks left the bedside, and Ambrosio was entrusted to the
care of the despairing Matilda. Next morning the surgeon was astonished
to find that the inflammation had subsided, and when he probed the wound
no traces of the venom were perceptible.

"A miracle! A miracle!" cried the monks. Joyfully they proclaimed that
St. Francis had saved the life of their sainted abbot.

But Ambrosio was still weak and languid, and again the monks left him in
Matilda's care. As he listened to an old ballad sung by her sweet voice,
he found renewed pleasure in her society, and was conscious of the
influence upon him of her beauty. For three days she nursed him, while
he watched her with increasing fondness. But on the next day she came
not. A lay-brother entered instead.

"Hasten, reverend father," said he. "Young Rosario lies at the point of
death, and he earnestly requests to see you."

In deep agitation he followed the lay-brother to Matilda's apartment.
Her face glowed at the sight of him. "Leave me, my brethren," she said
to the monks; much have I to tell this holy man in private."

"Father, I am poisoned," she said, when they had gone, "but the poison
once circulated in your veins."

"Matilda!"

"I loosened the bandage from your arm; I drew out the poison with my
lips. I feel death at my heart."

"And you have sacrificed yourself for me! Is there, indeed, no hope?"

"There is but one means of life in my power--a dangerous and dreadful
means; life would be purchased at too dear a rate--unless it were
permitted me to live for you."

"Then live for me," cried the infatuated monk, clasping her in his arms.
"Live for me!"

"Then," she cried joyfully, "no dangers shall appall me. Swear that you
will never inquire by what means I shall preserve myself, and procure
for me the key of the burying-ground common to us and the sisterhood of
St. Clare."

When Ambrosio had obtained the key, Matilda left him. She returned
radiant with joy.

"I have succeeded!" she cried. "I shall live, Ambrosio--shall live for
you!"


_III.--Unavailing Remorse_


Raymond and Lorenzo had gone to the rendezvous appointed in the letter,
and had waited to be joined by Agnes and to enable her to escape from
the convent.

But Agnes had not come, and the two friends withdrew in deep
mortification. Presently arrived a message from Raymond's uncle, the
cardinal, enclosing the Pope's bull ordering that Agnes should be
released from her vows, and restored to her relatives. Lorenzo at once
conveyed the bull to the prioress.

"It is out of my power to obey this order," said she, in a voice of
anger which she strove in vain to disguise. "Agnes is dead!"

Lorenzo hastened with the fatal news to Raymond, whose terrible
affliction led to a dangerous illness.

One morning, as Ambrosio was leaving the chapel after listening to many
penitents--he was the favourite confessor in Madrid--Antonia stepped
timidly up to him and begged him to visit her mother, who was stretched
on a bed of sickness. Charmed with her beauty and innocence, he
consented.

The monk retired to his cell, whither he was pursued by Antonia's image.
"What would be too dear a price," he meditated, "for this lovely girl's
affections?"

Not once but often did Ambrosio visit Antonia and her mother; and each
time he saw the innocent girl his love increased. Matilda, who had first
opened his heart to love, saw the change, and penetrated his secret.

"Since your love can no longer be mine," she said to him sadly, "I
request the next best gift--your confidence and friendship. You love
Antonia, but you love her despairingly. I come to point out the road to
success."

"Oh, impossible!"

"To those who dare, nothing is impossible. Listen! My guardian was a man
of uncommon knowledge, and from him I had training in the arts of magic.
One terrible power he gave me--the power of raising a demon. I shuddered
at the thought of employing it, until it became my only means of saving
my life--a life that you prized. For your sake I performed the mystic
rites in the sepulchre of St. Clare. For your sake I will perform them
again."

"No, no, Matilda!" cried the monk, "I will not ally myself with God's
enemy."

"Look!" Matilda held before him a mirror of polished steel, its borders
marked with various strange characters. A mist spread over the surface;
it cleared, and Ambrosio gazed upon the countenance of Antonia in all
its beauty.

"I yield!" he cried passionately. "Matilda, I follow you!"

They passed into the churchyard; they reached the entry to the vaults;
Ambrosio tremblingly followed Matilda down the staircase. They went
through narrow passages strewn with skulls and bones, and reached a
spacious cavern. Matilda drew a circle around herself, and another
around him; bending low, she muttered a few indistinct sentences, and a
thin, blue, sulphurous flame arose from the ground.

Suddenly she uttered a piercing shriek, and plunged a poniard into her
left arm; the blood poured down, a dark cloud arose, and a clap of
thunder was heard. Then a full strain of melodious music sounded and the
demon stood before them.

He was a youth of perfect face and form. Crimson wings extended from his
shoulders; many-coloured fires played about his locks; but there was a
wildness in his eyes, a mysterious melancholy in his features, that
betrayed the fallen angel.

Matilda conversed with him in unintelligible language; he bowed
submissively, and gave to her a silver branch, imitating myrtle, that he
bore in his right hand. The music was heard again, and ceased; the cloud
spread itself afresh; the demon vanished.

"With this branch," said Matilda, "every door will open before you. You
may gain access to Antonia; a touch of the branch will send her into a
deep sleep, and you may carry her away whither you will."

Ashamed and fearful, yet borne away by his love, the monk set forth. The
bolts of Antonia's house flew back, and the doors opened before the
silver myrtle.

But as he passed stealthily through the house a woman confronted him. It
was Antonia's mother, roused by a fearful dream.

"Monster of hypocrisy!" she cried in fury. "I had already suspected you,
but I kept silence. Now I will unmask you, villain!"

"Forgive me, lady!" begged the terrified monk. "I swear by all that is
holy------"

"No! All Madrid shall shudder at your perfidy."

He turned to fly. She seized him and screamed for help. He grasped
her by the throat with all his strength, strangled her, and flung her to
the ground, where she lay motionless. After a minute of horror-struck
shuddering, the murderer fled. He entered the abbey unobserved, and
having shut himself into his cell, he abandoned his soul to the tortures
of unavailing remorse.


_IV.--A Living Death_


"Do not despair," counselled Matilda, when the monk revealed his
failure. "Your crime is unsuspected. Antonia may still be yours. The
prioress of St. Clare has a mysterious liquor, the effect of which is to
give those who drink it the appearance of death for three days. Procure
some of this liquor, visit Antonia, and cause her to drink it; have her
body conveyed to a sepulchre in the vaults of St. Clare."

Ambrosio hastened to secure a phial of the mysterious potion. He went to
comfort Antonia in her distress, and contrived to pour a few drops from
the phial into a draught that she was taking. In a few hours he heard
that she was dead, and her body was conveyed to the vaults.

Meanwhile, Lorenzo had learned, not indeed that his sister was alive,
but that she had been the victim of terrible cruelty. A nun, who had
been Agnes's friend, hinted at atrocious vengeance taken by the prioress
for Agnes's attempt to escape. She suggested that Lorenzo should bring
the officers of the Inquisition with him and arrest the prioress during
a public procession of the nuns in honour of St Clare.

Accordingly, as the prioress passed along the street among her nuns with
a devout and sanctified air, the officers advanced and arrested her.

"Ah!" she cried frantically, "I am betrayed!"

"Betrayed!" replied the nun who had revealed the secret to Lorenzo. "I
charge the prioress with murder!"

She told how Agnes had been secretly poisoned by the prioress. The mob,
mad with indignation, rushed to the convent determined to destroy it.
Lorenzo and the officers hastened to endeavour to do what they could to
save the convent and the terrified nuns who had taken refuge there.

Antonia's heart throbbed, her eyes opened; she raised herself and cast a
wild look around her. Her clothing was a shroud; she lay in a coffin
among other coffins in a damp and hideous vault. Confronting her with a
lantern in his hand, and eyeing her greedily, stood Ambrosio.

"Where am I?" she said abruptly. "How came I here? Let me go!"

"Why these terrors, Antonia?" replied the abbot. "What fear you from
me--from one who adores you? You are imagined dead; society is for ever
lost to you. You are absolutely in my power!"

She screamed, and strove to escape; he clutched at her and struggled to
detain her. Suddenly Matilda entered in haste.

"The mob has set fire to the convent," she said to Ambrosio, "and the
abbey is in danger. Don Lorenzo and the officers are searching the
vaults. You cannot escape; you must remain here. They may not, perhaps,
enter this vault."

Antonia heard that rescue was at hand.

"Help! help!" she screamed, and ran out of the vault. The abbot pursued
her in desperation; he caught her; he could not stifle her cries.
Frantic in his desire to escape, he grasped Matilda's dagger, plunged it
twice in the bosom of Antonia, and fled back to the vault. It was too
late he had been seen, the glare of torches filled the vault, and
Ambrosio and Matilda were seized and bound by the officers of the
Inquisition.

Meanwhile, Lorenzo, running to and fro, had flashed his lantern upon a
creature so wretched, so emaciated, that he doubted to think her woman.
He stopped petrified with horror.

"Two days, and yet no food!" she moaned. "No hope, no comfort!" Suddenly
she looked up and addressed him.

"Do you bring me food, or do you bring me death?"

"I come," he replied, "to relieve your sorrows."

"God, is it possible? Oh, yes! Yes, it is!"--she fainted. Lorenzo
carried her in his arms to the nuns above.

Loud shrieks summoned him below again. Hastening after the officers, he
saw a woman bleeding on the ground. He went to her; it was his beloved
Antonia. She was dying; with a few sweet words of farewell, her spirit
passed away.

Broken-hearted, he returned. He had lost Antonia, but he was to learn
that Agnes was restored to him. The woman he had rescued was indeed his
sister, saved from a living death and brought back to life and love.


_V.--Lucifer_


Ambrosio was tortured into confession, and condemned to be burned at the
stake. Matilda, terrified at the sight of her fellow-criminal's
torments, confessed without torture, and was sentenced to be burned at
his side.

They were to perish at midnight, and as the monk, in panic-stricken
despair, awaited the awful hour, suddenly Matilda stood before him,
beautifully attired, with a look of wild pleasure in her eyes.

"Matilda!" he cried, "how have you gained entrance?"

"Ambrosio," she replied, "I am free. For life and liberty I have sold my
soul to Lucifer. Dare you do the same?"

The monk shuddered.

"I cannot renounce my God," he said.

"Fool! What hope have you of God's mercy?" She handed him a book. "If
you repent of your folly, read the first four lines in the seventh page
backwards." She vanished.

A fearful struggle raged in the monk's spirit. What hope had he in any
case of escaping eternal torment? And yet--was not the Almighty's mercy
infinite? Then the thought of the stake and the flames entered his mind
and appalled him.

At last the fatal hour came. The steps of his gaolers were heard in the
passage. In uttermost terror he opened the book and ran over the lines,
and straightway the fiend appeared--not seraph-like as when he appeared
formerly, but dark, hideous, and gigantic, with hissing snakes coiling
around his brows.

He placed a parchment before Ambrosio.

"Bear me hence!" cried the monk.

"Will you be mine, body and soul?" said the demon. "Resolve while there
is time!"

"I must!"

"Sign, then!" Lucifer thrust a pen into the flesh of Ambrosio's arm, and
the monk signed. A moment later he was carried through the roof of the
dungeon into mid-air.

The demon bore him with arrow-like speed to the brink of a precipice in
the Sierra Morena.

"Carry me to Matilda!" gasped the monk.

"Wretch!" answered Lucifer. "For what did you stipulate but rescue from
the Inquisition? Learn that when you signed, the steps in the corridor
were the steps of those who were bringing you a pardon. But now you are
mine beyond reprieve, to all eternity, and alive you quit not these
mountains."

Darting his talons into the monk's shaven crown, he sprang with him from
the rock. From a dreadful height he flung him headlong, and the torrent
bore away with it the shattered corpse of Ambrosio.

       *       *       *       *       *




ELIZA LYNN LINTON


Joshua Davidson


     Mrs. Lynn Linton, daughter of a vicar of Crosthwaite, was born at
     Keswick, England, Feb. 10, 1822. At the age of three-and-twenty
     she embarked on a literary career, and as a journalist,
     magazine contributor, and novelist wrote vigorously for over
     fifty years. Before her marriage, in 1858, to W.J. Linton, the
     eminent wood-engraver, who was also a poet, she had served on
     the staff of the "Morning Chronicle," as Paris correspondent.
     Later, she contributed to "All the Year Round," and to the
     "Saturday Review." After nine years of married life, the
     Lintons parted amicably. In 1872 Mrs. Lynn Linton published
     "The True History of Joshua Davidson," a powerfully simple
     story that has had much influence on working-class thought.
     "Christopher Kirkland," a later story, is largely
     autobiographical. Mrs. Linton died in London on July 14, 1898.
     She was a trenchant critic of what she regarded as tendencies
     towards degeneration in modern women.


_I.--A Cornish Christ_


Joshua Davidson was the only son of a village carpenter, born in the
small hamlet of Trevalga, on the North Cornwall coast, in the year 1835.
There was nothing very remarkable about Joshua's childhood. He was
always a quiet, thoughtful boy, and from his earliest years noticeably
pious. He had a habit of asking why, and of reasoning out a principle,
from quite a little lad, which displeased people, so that he did not get
all the credit from the schoolmaster and the clergyman to which his
diligence and good conduct entitled him.

He was never well looked on by the vicar since a famous scene that took
place in the church one Sunday. After catechism was over, Joshua stood
out before the rest, just in his rough country clothes as he was, and
said very respectfully to the vicar, "Mr. Grand, if you please I would
like to ask you a few questions."

"Certainly, my lad. What have you to say?" said Mr. Grand rather
shortly.

"If we say, sir, that Jesus Christ was God," said Joshua, "surely all
that He said and did must be real right? There cannot be a better way
than His?"

"Surely not, my lad," Mr. Grand made answer.

"And His apostles and disciples, they showed the way, too?" said Joshua.

"And they showed the way, too, as you say; and if you come up to half
they taught you'll do well, Joshua."

The vicar laughed a little laugh as he said this, but it was a laugh,
Joshua's mother said, that seemed to mean the same thing as a "scat"--
our Cornish word for a blow--only the boy didn't seem to see it.

"Yes; but, sir, if we are Christians, why don't we live as Christians?"
said Joshua.

"Ah, indeed, why don't we?" said Mr. Grand. "Because of the wickedness
of the human heart; because of the world, the flesh, and the devil."

"Then, sir, if you feel this, why don't you and all the clergy live like
the apostles, and give what you have to the poor?" cried Joshua,
clasping his hands and making a step forward, the tears in his eyes.

"Why do you live in a fine house, and have grand dinners, and let Peggy
Bray nearly starve in that old mud hut of hers, and Widow Tregellis
there, with her six children, and no fire or clothing for them? I can't
make it out, sir!"

"Who has been putting these bad thoughts into your head?" said Mr. Grand
sternly.

"No one, sir. I have been thinking for myself. Michael, out by Lion's
Den, is called an infidel--he calls himself one. And you preached last
Sunday that no infidel can be saved. But Michael helped Peggy and her
child when the orphan fund people took away her pension; and he worked
early and late for Widow Tregellis and her children, and shared with
them all he had, going short for them many a time. And I can't help
thinking, sir, that Christ would have helped Peggy, and that Michael,
being an infidel and such a good man, is something like that second son
in the parable who said he would not do his Lord's will when he was
ordered, but who went all the same------"

"And that your vicar is like the first?" interrupted Mr. Grand angrily.

"Well, yes, sir, if you please," said Joshua quite modestly, but very
fervently.

There was a stir among the ladies and gentlemen when Joshua said this;
and some laughed a little, under their breath, and others lifted up
their eyebrows and said, "What an extraordinary boy!" But Mr. Grand was
very angry, and said, in a severe tone, "These things are beyond the
knowledge of an ignorant lad like you, Joshua. I consider you have done
a very impertinent thing to-day, and I shall mark you for it!"

"I meant no harm. I meant only the truth and to hear the things of God,"
repeated Joshua sadly, as he took his seat among his companions, who
tittered.

And so Joshua was not well looked on by the clergyman, who was his
enemy, as one may say, ever after.

"Mother," said Joshua, "I mean, when I grow up, to live as our Lord and
Saviour lived when He was on the earth."

"He is our example, lad," said his mother. "But I doubt lest you fall by
over-boldness."


_II.--Faith That Moveth Mountains_


Joshua did not leave home early. He wrought at his father's bench, and
was content to bide with his people. But his spirit was not dead if his
life was uneventful. He gathered about him a few youths of his own age,
and held with them prayer-meetings and Bible readings, either at home in
his father's house, or in the fields when the throng was too great for
the cottage.

No one ever knew Joshua tell the shadow of a lie, or go back from his
word, or play at pretence. And he had such an odd way of coming right
home to us. He seemed to have felt all that we felt, and to have thought
all our thoughts.

The youths that Joshua got together as his friends were as
well-conditioned a set of lads as you would wish to see--sober,
industrious, chaste. Their aim was to be thorough and like Christ.
Joshua's great hope was to bring back the world to the simplicity and
broad humanity of Christ's acted life, and he could not understand how
it had been let drop.

He was but a young man at this time, remember--enthusiastic, with little
or no scientific knowledge, and putting the direct interposition of God
above the natural law. Wherefore, he accepted the text about faith
removing mountains as literally true. And one evening he went down into
the Rocky Valley, earnest to try conclusions with God's promise, and
sure of proving it true.

He prayed to God to grant us this manifestation--to redeem His promise.
Not a shadow of doubt chilled or slacked him. As he stood there in the
softening twilight, with his arms raised above his head and his face
turned up to the sky, his countenance glowed as Moses' of old. He seemed
inspired, transported beyond himself, beyond humanity.

He commanded the stone to move in God's name, and because Christ had
promised. But the rock stood still, and a stonechat went and perched on
it.

Another time he took up a viper in his hand, quoting the passage, "They
shall take up serpents." But the beast stung him, and he was ill for
days after.

"Take my advice," said the doctor. "Put all these thoughts out of your
head. Get some work to do in a new part of the country, fall in love
with some nice girl, and marry as soon as you can make a home for her.
That's the only life for you, depend upon it."

"God has given me other thoughts," said Joshua, "and I must obey them."

The doctor said afterwards that he was quite touched at the lad's
sweetness and wrong-headedness combined.

The failure of these trials of faith perplexed us all, and profoundly
afflicted Joshua. "Friends," he said at last, "it seems to me--indeed, I
think we must all see it now--that His Word is not to be accepted
literally. The laws of nature are supreme, and even faith cannot change
them. Can it be," he then said solemnly, "that much of the Word is a
parable--that Christ was truly, as He says of Himself, the corner-stone,
but not the whole building--and that we have to carry on the work in His
spirit, but in our own way, and not merely to try and repeat His acts?"

It was after this that we noticed a certain restlessness in Joshua. But
in time he had an offer to go up to London to follow his trade at a
large house in the City, and got me a job as well, that I might be
alongside of him. For we were like brothers. A few days before he went,
Joshua happened to be coming out of his father's workshop just as Mr.
Grand was passing, driving the neat pair-horse phaeton he had lately
bought.

"Well, Joshua, and how are you doing? And why have you not been to
church lately?" said the parson, pulling up.

"Well, sir," said Joshua, "I don't go to church, you know."

"A new light on your own account, hey?" and he laughed as if he mocked
him.

"No, sir; only a seeker."

"The old path's not good enough for you?"

"I must answer for my conscience to God, sir," said Joshua.

"And your clergyman, appointed by God and the state to be your guide,
what of him? Has he no authority in his own parish?"

"Look here, sir," said Joshua, quite respectfully; "I deny your
appointment as a God-given leader of souls. The Church is but the old
priesthood as it existed in the days of our Lord. I see no sacrifice of
the world, no brotherhood with the poor----"

"The poor!" interrupted Mr. Grand disdainfully. "What would you have,
you young fool? The poor have the laws of their country to protect them,
and the Gospel preached to them for their salvation."

"Why, sir, the poor of our day are the lepers of Christ's, and who among
you Christian priests consorts with them? Who ranks the man above his
station, or the soul above the man?"

"Now we have come to it!" cried Mr. Grand. "I thought I should touch the
secret spring at last! And you would like us to associate with you as
equals--is that it, Joshua? Gentlemen and common men hob-and-nob
together, and no distinctions made? You to ride in our carriages, and
perhaps marry our daughters?"

"That's just it, sir. You are gentlemen, as you say, but not the
followers of Christ. If you were, you would have no carriages to ride
in, and your daughters would be what Martha and Mary and Lydia and
Dorcas were, and their title to ladyhood founded on their degrees of
goodness."

"Shall I tell you what would be the very thing for you," said Mr. Grand,
quite quietly.

"Yes, sir; what?" asked Joshua eagerly.

"This whip across your shoulders! And, by George, if I were not a
clergyman, I would lay it there with a will!" cried the parson.

No one had ever seen Joshua angry since he had grown up. His temper was
proverbially sweet, and his self-control was a marvel. But this time he
lost both.

"God shall smite thee, thou white wall!" he cried with vehemence. "You
are the gentleman, sir, and I am only a poor carpenter's son; but I
spurn you with a deeper and more solemn scorn than you have spurned me!"

He lifted his hand as he said this, with a strange and passionate
gesture, then turned himself about and went in, and Mr. Grand drove off
more his ill-wisher than before. He also made old Davidson, Joshua's
father, suffer for his son, for he took away his custom from him, and
did him what harm in the neighbourhood a gentleman's ill word can do a
working man.


_III.--Is Christ's Way Livable?_


In London a new view of life opened to Joshua. The first thing that
struck him in our workshop was the avowed infidelity of the workmen.
Distrust had penetrated to their inmost souls. Christianity represents
to the poor, not Christ tender to the sinful, visiting the leprous, the
brother of publicans, at Whose feet sat the harlots and were comforted,
but the gentleman taking sides with God against the poor and oppressed,
an elder brother in the courts of heaven kicking the younger out of
doors.

At this time Joshua's mind was like an unpiloted vessel. He was beset
with doubts, in which the only thing that kept its shape or place was
the character of Christ. For the rest, everything had failed him. During
this time he did not neglect what I suppose may be called the secular
life. He attended all such science classes as he had time for, and being
naturally quick in study, he picked up a vast deal of knowledge in a
very short time; he interested himself in politics, in current social
questions, specially those relating to labour and capital, and in the
condition of the poor.

So his time passed, till at last one evening, "Friends," he said, "I
have at last cleared my mind and come to a belief. I have proved to
myself the sole meaning of Christ: it is humanity. The modern Christ
would be a politician. His aim would be to raise the whole platform of
society. He would work at the destruction of caste, which is the vice at
the root of all our creeds and institutions. He would accept the truths
of science, and He would teach that a man saves his own soul best by
helping his neighbour. Friends, the doctrine I have chosen for myself is
Christian Communism, and my aim will be, the life after Christ in the
service of humanity."

It was this which made him begin his "night school," where he got
together all who would come, and tried to interest them in a few homely
truths in the way of cleanliness, health, good cooking, and the like,
with interludes, so to speak, of lessons in morality.

We lodged in a stifling court, Church Court, where every room was filled
as if cubic inches were gold, as indeed they are to London house-owners,
if human life is but dross. Opposite us lived Mary Prinsep, who was what
the world calls lost--a bad girl--a castaway--but I have reason to speak
well of her, for to her we owe the life of Joshua. Joshua fell ill in
our wretched lodgings, where we lived and did for ourselves, and I was
obliged to leave him for twelve hours and more at a stretch; but Mary
Prinsep came over and nursed him, and kept him alive. We helped her all
we could, and she helped us. This got us the name of associating with
bad women.

Among the rest of the doubtful characters with which our court abounded
was one Joe Traill, who had been in prison many a time for petty larceny
and the like. He was one of those who stink in the nostrils of cleanly,
civilised society, and who are its shame and secret sore. There was no
place for Joe in this great world of ours. He said to Joshua one night
in his blithe way that there was nothing for him but to make a running
fight for it, now up, now down, as his luck went.

"Burglary's a bad trade," said Joshua.

"Only one I've got at my fingers' ends, governor," laughed the thief;
"and starvation is a worse go than quod."

"Well, till you've learned a better, share with us," said Joshua. So now
we had a reformed burglar and a reformed prostitute in our little
circle.

"It is what Christ would have done," said Joshua, when he was
remonstrated with.

But the police did not see it. Wherefore, "from information received,"
Joshua and I were called up before the master, and had our dismissal
from the shop, and we found ourselves penniless in the wilds of London.
But Joshua was undisturbed. He told both Joe and Mary that he would not
forsake them, come what might.

It was a hard time, and, bit by bit, everything we possessed passed over
the pawnbroker's counter, even to our tools. But when we were at the
worst Joshua received a letter enclosing a five-pound note, "from a
friend." We never knew where it came from, and there was no clue by
which we could guess. Immediately after both Joshua and I got a job, and
Joe and Mary still bided with us.

Joshua's life of work and endeavour brought with it no reward of praise
or popularity. It suffered the fate of all unsectarianism, and made him
to be as one man in the midst of foes. He soon began to see that the
utmost he could do was only palliative and temporary. So he turned to
class organisation as something more hopeful than private charity. When
the International Workingmen's Association was formed, he joined it as
one of its first members; indeed, he mainly helped to establish it. And
though he never got the ear of the International, because he was so
truly liberal, he had some little influence, and what influence he had
ennobled their councils as they have never been ennobled since.

One evening Joe Traill, who had been given a situation, came into the
night school staggering drunk, and made a commotion, and though Joshua
quieted him, after being struck by him, the police, attracted by the
tumult, came up into the room and marched Joshua and myself off to the
police station, where we were locked up for the night. As we had to be
punished, reason or none, we were both sent to prison for a couple of
weeks next morning.

Well, Christ was the criminal of his day!

Such backslidings and failures at that of Joe Traill were among the
greatest difficulties of Joshua's work. Men and women whom he had
thought he had cleansed and set on a wholesome way of living, turned
back again to the drink and the deviltry of their lives, and the various
sectarians who came along all agreed that the cause of his failures
was--Joshua was not a Christian!

Next a spasmodic philanthropist, Lord X., struck up a friendship with
Joshua, who, he said, wanted, as a background, a man of position. This
led to Joshua's first introduction into a wealthy house of the upper
classes, and the luxury and lavishness almost stupefied him. Lady X.
liked Joshua, and felt he was a master-spirit, but when she came to
Church Court, and found out what Mary had been, she went away offended,
and we saw her no more.


_IV.--The Pathway of Martyrdom_


Sometimes Joshua went as a lecturer to various towns, for his political
associates were willing to use his political zeal, though they did not
go in for his religious views. He insisted on the need of the working
classes raising themselves to a higher level in mind and circumstance,
and on the right of each man to a fair share of the primary essentials
for good living. His discourses roused immense antagonism, and he was
sometimes set upon and severely handled by the men to whom he spoke. I
have known swindlers and murderers more gently entreated. When, after
the war between France and Prussia the Commune declared itself in Paris,
Joshua went over to help, as far as he could, in the cause of humanity.
I went with him, and poor, loving, faithful Mary followed us. But there,
notwithstanding all that we and others of like mind could do, blood was
shed which covered liberty with shame, and in the confusion that
followed Mary was shot as a pétroleuse while she was succouring the
wounded. We buried her tenderly, and I laid part of my life in her
grave.

On our return Joshua was regarded as the representative of social
destruction and godless licence, for the very name of the Commune was a
red rag to English thought.

At last we came to a place called Lowbridge, where Joshua was announced
to lecture on Communism in the town hall. Grave as he always was, that
night he was grave to sadness, like a martyr going to his death. He
shook hands with me before going on the platform, and said, "God bless
you, John; you have been a true friend to me."

In the first row in front of him was the former clergyman of Trevalga,
Mr. Grand, who had lately been given the rich living of Lowbridge and
one or two stately cathedral appointments. At the first word Joshua
spoke there broke out such a tumult as I had never heard in any public
meeting. The yells, hisses, cat-calls, whoopings, were indescribable. It
only ceased when Mr. Grand rose, and standing on a chair, appealed to
the audience to "Give him your minds, my men, and let him understand
that Lowbridge is no place for a godless rascal like him."

I will do Mr. Grand the justice to say I do not think he intended his
words to have the effect they did have. A dozen men leaped on the
platform, and in a moment I saw Joshua under their feet. They had it all
their own way, and while he lay on the ground, pale and senseless, one,
with a fearful oath, kicked him twice on the head. Suddenly a whisper
went round, they all drew a little, way off, the gas was turned down,
and the place cleared as if by magic. When the lights were up again, I
went to lift him--and he was dead.

The man who had lived the life after Christ more exactly than any human
being ever known to me was killed by the Christian party of order. So
the world has ever disowned its best when they came.

The death of my friend has left me not only desolate but uncertain. Like
Joshua in earlier days, my mind is unpiloted and unanchored. Everywhere
I see the sifting of competition, and nowhere Christian protection of
weakness; everywhere dogma adored, and nowhere Christ realised. And
again I ask, Which is true--modern society in its class strife and
consequent elimination of its weaker elements, or the brotherhood and
communism taught by the Jewish Carpenter of Nazareth? Who will answer
me? Who will make the dark thing clear?

       *       *       *       *       *




SAMUEL LOVER


Handy Andy


     Samuel Lover, born at Dublin on February 24, 1797, was the
     most versatile man of his age. He was a song-writer, a
     novelist, a painter, a dramatist, and an entertainer; and in
     each of these parts he was remarkably successful. In 1835 he
     came to London, and set up as a miniature painter; then he
     turned to literature, and in "Rory O'More," published in 1837,
     and "Handy Andy, a Tale of Irish Life," which appeared in
     1842, he took the town. Lover was a typical Irishman of the
     old school--high-spirited, witty, and jovially humorous; and
     his work is informed with a genuine Irish raciness that gives
     it a perennial freshness. He is a man gaily in love with life,
     and with a quick eye for all the varied humours of it. "Handy
     Andy" is one of the most amusing books ever written; a roaring
     farce, written by a man who combined the liveliest sense of
     fun with a painter's gift of portraying real character in a
     few vivid touches. Samuel Lover died on July 6, 1868.


_I.--The Squire Gets a Surprise_


Andy Rooney was a fellow with a most ingenious knack of doing everything
the wrong way. "Handy" Andy was the nickname the neighbours stuck on
him, and the poor simple-minded lad liked the jeering jingle. Even Mrs.
Rooney, who thought that her boy was "the sweetest craythur the cun
shines on," preferred to hear him called "Handy Andy" rather than
"Suds."

For sad memories attached to the latter nickname. Knowing what a hard
life Mrs. Rooney had had--she had married a stranger, who disappeared a
month after marriage, so Andy came into the world with no father to beat
a little sense into him--Squire Egan of Merryvale engaged the boy as a
servant. One of the first things that Andy was called upon to do was to
wait at table during an important political dinner given by the squire.
Andy was told to ice the champagne, and the wine and a tub of ice were
given to him.

"Well, this is the quarest thing I ever heered of," said Andy. "Musha!
What outlandish inventions the quality has among them! They're not
content with wine, but they must have ice along with it--and in a tub,
too, like pigs! Troth, its a' dirty thrick, I think. But here goes!"
said he; and opening a bottle of champagne, he poured it into the tub
with the ice.

Andy distinguished himself right at the beginning of the dinner. One of
the guests asked him for soda-water.

"Would you like it hot or cold, sir?" he said.

"Never mind," replied the guest, with a laugh. But Andy was anxious to
please, and the squire's butler met him hurrying to the kitchen,
bewildered, but still resolute.

"One of the gintlemen wants some soap and wather with his wine,"
exclaimed Andy. "Shall I give it hot or cold?"

The distracted and irate butler took Andy to the sideboard and pushed a
small soda into his hand, saying, "Cut the cord, you fool!" Andy took it
gingerly, and holding it over the table, carried out the order. Bang I
went the bottle, and the cork, after knocking out two of the lights,
struck the squire in the eye, while the hostess had a cold bath down her
back. Poor Andy, frightened by the soda-water jumping out of the bottle,
kept holding it out at arm's-length, exclaiming at every fizz, "Ow, ow,
ow!"

"Send that fellow out of the room," said the squire to the butler, "and
bring in the champagne."

In staggered Andy with the tub.

"Hand it round the table," said the squire.

Andy tried to lift up the tub "to hand it round the table," but finding
he could not, he whispered, "I can't get it up, sir!"

"Draw it then," murmured his master, thinking that Andy meant he had got
a bottle which was not effervescent enough to expel its own cork.

"Here it is," said Andy, pulling the tub up to the squire's chair.

"What do you mean, you stupid rascal?" exclaimed the squire, staring at
the strange stuff before him. "There's not a single bottle there!"

"To be sure there's no bottle there, sir," said Andy. "I've poured every
dhrop of wine in the ice, as you towld me, sir. If you put your hand
down into it, you'll feel it."

A wild roar of laughter uprose from the listening guests. Happily they
were now too merry to be upset by the mishap, and it was generally voted
that the joke was worth twice as much as the wine. Handy Andy was,
however, expelled from the dining-room in disgrace, and for days kept
out of his master's way, and the servants for months would call him by
no other name but "Suds."


_II.--O'Grady Gets a Blister_


Mr. Egan was a kind-hearted man, and, instead of dismissing Andy, he
kept him on for out-door work. Our hero at once distinguished himself in
his new walk of life.

"Ride into the town and see if there is a letter for me," said the
squire.

"I want a letther, if you plaze!" shouted Andy, rushing into the
post-office.

"Who do you want it for?" asked the postmaster.

"What consarn is that o' yours?" exclaimed Andy.

Happily, a man who knew Andy looked in for a letter, paid the postage of
fourpence on it, and then settled the dispute between Andy and the
postmaster by mentioning Mr. Egan's name.

"Why didn't you tell me you came from the squire?" said the postmaster.
"Here's a letter for him. Elevenpence postage."

"Elevenpence postage!" Andy cried. "Didn't I see you give that man a
letther for fourpence, and a bigger letther than this? Do you think I'm
a fool?"

"No," said the postmaster; "I'm sure of it."

He walked off to serve another customer, and Andy meditated. His master
wanted the letter badly, so he would have to pay the exorbitant price.
He snatched two other letters from the heap on the counter while the
postmaster's back was turned, paid the elevenpence, received the epistle
to which he was entitled, and rode home triumphant.

"Look at that!" he exclaimed, slapping the three letters down under his
broad fist on the table before the astonished squire. "He made me pay
elevenpence, by gor! But I've brought your honour the worth of your
money, anyhow."

"Well, by the powers!" said the squire, as Andy stalked out of the room
with an air of supreme triumph. "That's the most extraordinary genius I
ever came across!"

He read the letter for which he had been anxiously waiting. It was from
his lawyer about the forthcoming election. In it he was warned to beware
of his friend O'Grady, who was selling his interest to the government
candidate.

"So that's the work O'Grady's at!" exclaimed the squire angrily. "Foul,
foul! And after all the money I lent him, too!"

He threw down the letter, and his eye caught the other two that Andy had
stolen.

"More of that mad fool's work! Robbing the mail now. That's a hanging
job. I'd better send them to the parties to whom they're addressed."

Picking up one of the epistles, he found it was a government letter
directed to his new enemy, O'Grady. "All's fair in war," thought the
squire, and pinching the letter until it gaped, he peeped in and read:
"As you very properly remark, poor Egan is a spoon--a mere spoon." "Am I
a spoon, your villain!" roared the squire, tearing the letter and
throwing it into the fire. "I'm a spoon you'll sup sorrow with yet!"

"Get out a writ on O'Grady for all the money he owes me," he wrote to
his lawyer. "Send me the blister, and I'll slap it on him."

Unfortunately, he sent Andy with this letter; still more unfortunately,
Mrs. Egan also gave the simple fellow a prescription to be made up at
the chemist's. Andy surpassed himself on this occasion. He called at the
chemist's on his way back from the lawyer's, and carefully laid the
sealed envelope containing the writ on the counter, while he was getting
the medicine. On leaving, he took up a different envelope.

"My dear Squire," ran the letter Andy brought back, "I send you the
blister for O'Grady, as you insist on it; but I don't think you will
find it easy to serve him with it.--Your obedient, MURTOUGH MURPHY."

When the squire opened the accompanying envelope, and found within a
real instead of a figurative blister, he grew crimson with rage. But he
was consoled when he went to horsewhip his attorney, and met the chemist
pelting down the street with O'Grady tearing after him with a cudgel.
For some years O'Grady had successfully kept out of his door every
process-server sent by his innumerable creditors; but now, having got a
cold, he had dispatched his man to the chemist for a blister, and owing
to Handy Andy, he obtained Squire Egan's writ against him.

"You've made a mistake this time, you rascal," said the squire to Andy,
"for which I'll forgive you."

And this was only fair, for through it he was able to carry the
election, and become Edward Egan, Esq., M.P.


_III.--Andy Gets Married_


Andy was among the guests invited to the wedding feast of pretty Matty
Dwyer and handsome young James Casey; like everybody else he came to the
marriage full of curiosity. Matty's father, John Dwyer, was a hard,
close-fisted fellow, and, as all the neighbours knew, there had been
many fierce disputes between him and Casey over the question of a farm
belonging to Dwyer going into the marriage settlement.

A grand dinner was laid in the large barn, but it was kept waiting owing
to the absence of the bridegroom. Father Phil, the kindly, jovial parish
priest, who had come to help James and Matty "tie with their tongues the
knot they couldn't undo with their teeth," had not broken his fast that
day, and wanted the feast to go on. To the great surprise of the
company, Matty backed him, and full of life and spirits, began to lay
the dinner. For some time the hungry guests were busy with the good
cheer provided for them, but the women at last asked in loud whispers,
"Where in the world is James Casey?" Still the bride kept up her smiles,
but old Jack Dwyer's face grew blacker and blacker. Unable to bear the
strain any longer, he stood up and addressed the expectant crowd.

"You see the disgrace that's put on me!"

"He'll come yet, sir," said Andy.

"No, he won't!" cried Dwyer, "I see he won't. He wanted to get
everything his own way, and he thinks to disgrace me in doing what he
likes, but he shan't;" and he struck the table fiercely. "He goes back
of his bargain now, thinkin' I'll give in to him; but I won't. Friends
and neighbours, here's the lease of the three-cornered field below there
and a snug little cottage, and it's ready for my girl to walk in with
the man that will have her! If there's a man among you here that's
willing, let him say the word, and I'll give her to him!"

Matty tried to protest, but her father silenced her with a terrible
look. When old Dwyer's blood was up, he was capable of murder. No guest
dared to speak.

"Are yiz all dumb?" shouted Dwyer. "It's not every day a farm and a fine
girl falls in a man's way."

Still no one spoke, and Andy thought they were using Dwyer and his
daughter badly.

"Would I do, sir?" he timidly said.

Andy was just the last man Dwyer would have chosen, but he was
determined that someone should marry the girl, and show Casey "the
disgrace should not be put on him." He called up Andy and Matty, and
asked the priest to marry them.

"I can't, if your daughter objects," said Father Phil.

Dwyer turned on the girl, and there was the devil in his eye.

"I'll marry him," said Matty.

So the rites and blessings of the Church were dispensed between two
persons who an hour before had never given a thought to each other. Yet
it was wonderful with what lightness of heart Matty went through the
honours consequent on a peasant bridal in Ireland. She gaily led off the
dance with Andy, and the night was far spent before the bride and
bridegroom were escorted to the cottage which was to be their home.

Matty sat quiet, looking at the fire, while Andy bolted the door; but
when he tried to kiss her she leaped up furiously.

"I'll crack your silly head if you don't behave yourself," she cried,
seizing a stool and brandishing it above him.

"Oh, wirra, wirra!" said Andy. "Aren't you my wife? Why did you marry
me?"

"Did I want owld Jack Dwyer to murther me as soon as the people's backs
was turned?" said Matty. "But though I'm afraid of him, I'm not afraid
of you!"

"Och!" cried poor Andy, "what'll be the end of it?"

There was a tap at the door as he spoke, and Matty ran and opened it.

In came James Casey and half a dozen strong young fellows. Behind them
crept a reprobate, degraded priest who got his living and his name of
"Couple-Beggar" by performing irregular marriages. The end of it was
that Matty was married over again to Casey, whom she had sent for while
the dancing was going on. Poor Andy, bound hand and foot, was carried
out of the cottage to a lonely by-way, and there he passed his
wedding-night roped to the stump of an old tree.


_IV.--Andy Gets Married Again_


Misfortunes now accumulated on Andy's head. At break of day he was
released from the tree-stump by Squire Egan, who was riding by with some
bad news for the man he thought was now a happy bridegroom. Owing to an
indiscreet word dropped by our simple-minded hero, a gang of smugglers,
who ran an illicit still on the moors, had gathered something about Andy
stealing the letters from the post-office and Squire Egan burning them.
They had already begun to blackmail the squire, and in order to defeat
them it was necessary to get Andy out of the country for some time. So
nothing could be done against Casey.

And, on going home to prepare for a journey to England with a friend of
the squire's, Andy found his mother in a sad state of anxiety. His
pretty cousin, Oonah, was crying in a corner of the room, and Ragged
Nance, an unkempt beggar-woman, to whom the Rooneys had done many a good
turn, was screaming, "I tell you Shan More means to carry off Oonah
to-night. I heard them laying the plan for it."

"We'll go to the squire," sobbed Mrs. Rooney. "The villain durst not!"

"He's got the squire under his thumb, I tell you," replied Ragged Nance.
"You must look after yourselves. I've got it," she said, turning to
Andy. "We'll dress him as a girl, and let the smugglers take him."

Andy roared with laughter at the notion of being made a girl of. Though
Shan More was the blackguardly leader of the smugglers who were giving
the squire trouble, Andy was too taken up with the fun of being
transformed into the very rough likeness of a pleasing young woman to
think of the danger. It was difficult to give his angular form the
necessary roundness of outline; but Ragged Nance at last padded him out
with straw, and tied a bonnet on his head to shade his face, saying,
"That'll deceive them. Shan More won't come himself. He'll send some of
his men, and they're all dhrunk already."

"But they'll murdher my boy when they find out the chate," said Mrs.
Rooney.

"Suppose they did," exclaimed Andy stoutly; "I'd rather die, sure, than
the disgrace should fall upon Oonah there."

"God bless you, Andy dear!" said Oonah.

The tramp of approaching horses rang through the stillness of the night,
and Oonah and Nance ran out and crouched in the potato tops in the
garden. Four drunken vagabonds broke into the cottage, and, seeing Andy
in the dim light clinging to his mother, they dragged him away and
lifted him on a horse, and galloped off with him.

As it happened, luck favoured Andy. When he came to the smugglers' den,
Shan More was lying on the ground stunned, and his sister, Red Bridget,
was tending him; in going up the ladder from the underground
whisky-still, he had fallen backward. The upshot was that Andy was left
in charge of Red Bridget. But, alas! just as he was hoping to escape,
she penetrated through his disguise. More unfortunately still, Andy was,
with all his faults, a rather good-looking young fellow, and Red Bridget
took a fancy to him, and the "Couple-Beggar" was waiting for a job.

Smugglers' whisky is very strong, and Bridget artfully plied him with
it. Andy was still rather dazed when he reached home next morning.

"I've married again," he said to his mother.

"Married?" interrupted Oonah, growing pale. "Who to?"

"Shan More's sister," said Andy.

"Wirasthru!" screamed Mrs. Rooney, tearing her cap off her head. "You
got the worst woman in Ireland."

"Then I'll go and 'list for a sojer," said he.


_V.--Andy Gets Married a Third Time_


It was Father Phil that brought the extraordinary news to Squire Egan.

"Do you remember those two letters that Andy stole from the post-office,
and that someone burnt?" he asked, with a smile.

"I've been meaning to tell you, father, that one was for you," said the
squire, looking very uncomfortable.

"Oh, Andy let it out long ago," said the kindly old priest. "But the
joke is that by stealing my letter Andy nearly lost a title and a great
fortune. Ever heard of Lord Scatterbrain? He died a little time ago,
confessing in his will that it was he that married Mrs. Rooney, and
deserted her."

"So Handy Andy is now a lord!" exclaimed the squire, rocking with
laughter.

Andy took it like a true son of the wildest and most eccentric of Irish
peers. On getting over the first shock of astonishment, he broke out
into short peals of laughter, exclaiming at intervals, that "it was
mighty quare." When, after much questioning, his wishes in regard to his
new life were made clear, it was found that they all centred on one
object, which was "to have a goold watch."

The squire was perplexed what to do with a great nobleman of this sort,
and at last he got a kinsman, Dick Dawson, who loved fun, to take Andy
under his especial care to London. When they arrived there it was
wonderful how many persons were eager to show civility to his new
lordship, and he who as Handy Andy had been cried down all his life as a
"stupid rascal," "a blundering thief," "a thick-headed brute," suddenly
acquired, under the title of Lord Scatterbrain, a reputation for being
"vastly amusing, a little eccentric, perhaps, but so droll."

All this was very delightful for Andy--so delightful that he quite
forgot Red Bridget. But Red Bridget did not forget him.

"Lady Scatterbrain!" announced the servant one day; and in came Bridget
and Shan More and an attorney.

The attorney brought out a settlement in which an exorbitant sum was to
be settled on Bridget, and Shan More, with a threatening air, ordered
Andy to sign the deed.

"I can't," cried Andy, retreating to the fire-place, "and I won't!"

"You must sign your name!" roared Shan More.

"I can't, I tell you!" yelled Andy, seizing the poker. "I've never
larned to write."

"Your lordship can make your mark," said the attorney.

"I'll make my mark with this poker," cried Andy, "if you don't all clear
out!"

The noise of a frightful row brought Dick Dawson into the room, and he
managed to get rid of the intruders by inducing the attorney to conduct
the negotiations through Lord Scatterbrain's solicitors.

But while the negotiations were going on, a fact came to light that
altered the whole complexion of the matter, and Andy went post-haste
over to Ireland to the fine house in which his mother and his cousin
were living.

Bursting into the drawing-room, he made a rush upon Oonah, whom he
hugged and kissed most outrageously, with exclamations of the wildest
affection.

When Oonah freed herself from his embraces, and asked him what he was
about, Andy turned over the chairs, threw the mantelpiece ornaments into
the fire, and banged the poker and tongs together, shouting! "Hurroo!
I'm not married at all!"

It had been discovered that Red Bridget had a husband living when she
forced Andy to marry her, and as soon as it was legally proved that Lord
Scatterbrain was a free man, Father Phil was called in, and Oonah, who
had all along loved her wild cousin, was made Lady Scatterbrain.

       *       *       *       *       *




EDWARD BULWER LYTTON


Eugene Aram


     Novelist, poet, essayist, and politician, Edward Bulwer Lytton
     was born in London on May 25, 1805. His father was General
     Earle Bulwer. He assumed his mother's family name on her death
     in 1843, and was elevated to the peerage as Baron Lytton in
     1866. At seventeen Lytton published a volume entitled,
     "Ismael, and Other Poems." An unhappy marriage in 1827 was
     followed by extraordinary literary activity, and during the
     next ten years he produced twelve novels, two poems, a play,
     "England and the English," and "Athens: Its Rise and Fall,"
     besides an enormous number of shorter stories, essays, and
     articles for contemporary periodicals. Altogether his output
     is represented by nearly sixty volumes. Few books on their
     publication have created a greater furore than Lord Lytton's
     "Eugene Aram," which was published in 1832. One section of the
     novel-reading public hailed its moving, dramatic story with
     manifest delight, while the other severely condemned it on the
     plea of its false morality. The story takes its title from
     that remarkable scholar and criminal, Eugene Aram, at one time
     a tutor in the Lytton family, who was executed at York in
     1759, for a murder committed fourteen years before. The crime
     caused much consternation at the time, Aram's refined and mild
     disposition being apparently in direct contradiction to his
     real nature. The novel is an unusually successful, though
     perhaps one-sided psychological study. In a revised edition
     Lytton made the narrative agree with his own conclusion that,
     though an accomplice in robbery, Aram was not guilty of
     premeditated or actual murder. Edward Bulwer Lytton died on
     January 18, 1873.


_I.--At the Sign of the Spotted Dog_


In the county of ---- was a sequestered hamlet, to which I shall give
the name of Grassdale. It lay in a fruitful valley between gentle and
fertile hills. Its single hostelry, the Spotted Dog, was owned by one
Peter Dealtry, a small farmer, who was also clerk of the parish. On
summer evenings Peter was frequently to be seen outside his inn
discussing psalmody and other matters with Jacob Bunting, late a
corporal in his majesty's army, a man who prided himself on his
knowledge of the world, and found Peter's too easy fund of merriment
occasionally irritating.

On one such evening their discussion was interrupted by an
unprepossessing and travel-stained stranger, who, when his wants, none
too amiably expressed, had been attended to, exhibited a marked
curiosity concerning the people of the locality. As the stranger paid
for his welcome with a liberal hand, Peter became more than usually
communicative.

He described the lord of the manor, a distinguished nobleman who lived
at the castle some six miles away. He talked of the squire and his
household. "But," he continued, "the most noticeable man is a great
scholar. There, yonder," said he, "you may just catch a glimpse of the
tall what-d'ye-call-it he has built on the top of his house that he may
get nearer to the stars."

"The scholar, I suppose," observed the stranger, "is not very rich.
Learning does not clothe men nowadays, eh, corporal?"

"And why should it?" asked Bunting. "Zounds! can it teach a man how to
defend his country? Old England wants soldiers. But the man's well
enough, I must own--civil, modest----"

"And by no means a beggar," added Peter. "He gave as much to the poor
last winter as the squire himself. But if he were as rich as Lord----he
could not be more respected. The greatest folk in the country come in
their carriages-and-four to see him. There is not a man more talked on
in the whole county than Eugene Aram----"

"What!" cried the traveller, his countenance changing as he sprang from
his seat. "What! Aram! Did you say _Aram_? Great heavens! How strange!"

"What! You know him?" gasped the astonished landlord.

Instead of replying, the stranger muttered inaudible words between his
teeth. Now he strode two steps forward, clenching his hands. Now smiled
grimly. Then he threw himself upon his seat, still in silence.

"Rum tantrums!" ejaculated the corporal. "What the devil! Did the man
eat your grandmother?"

The stranger lifted his head, and addressing Peter, said, with a forced
smile, "You have done me a great kindness, my friend. Eugene Aram was an
early acquaintance of mine. We have not met for many years. I never
guessed that he lived in these parts."

And then, directed, in answer to his inquiries, to Aram's dwelling, a
lonely grey house in the middle of a broad plain, the traveller went his
way.


_II.--The Squire's Guest_


The man the stranger went to seek was one who perhaps might have
numbered some five-and-thirty years, but at a hasty glance would have
seemed considerably younger. His frame was tall, slender, but well-knit
and fair proportioned; his cheek was pale, but with thought; his hair
was long, and of a rich, deep brown; his brow was unfurrowed; his face
was one that a physiognomist would have loved to look upon, so much did
it speak of both the refinement and the dignity of intellect.

Eugene Aram had been now about two years settled in his present retreat,
with an elderly dame as housekeeper. From almost every college in Europe
came visitors to his humble dwelling, and willingly he imparted to
others any benefit derived from his lonely researches. But he proffered
no hospitality, and shrank from all offers of friendship. Yet, unsocial
as he was, everyone loved him. The peasant threw kindly pity into his
respectful greeting. Even that terror of the village, Mother Darkmans,
saved her bitterest gibes for others; and the village maiden, as she
curtseyed by him, stole a glance at his handsome but melancholy
countenance, and told her sweetheart she was certain the poor scholar
had been crossed in love.

At the manor house he was often the subject of remark, but only on the
day of the stranger's appearance at the Spotted Dog had the squire found
an opportunity of breaking through the scholar's habitual reserve, and
so persuaded him to dine with him and his family on the day following.

The squire, Rowland Lester, a man of cultivated tastes, was a widower,
with two daughters and a nephew. Walter, the only son of Rowland's
brother Geoffrey, who had absconded, leaving his wife and child to shift
for themselves, was in his twenty-first year, tall and strong, with a
striking if not strictly handsome face; high-spirited, jealous of the
affections of those he loved; cheerful outwardly, but given to moody
reflections on his orphaned and dependent lot, for his mother had not
long survived her desertion.

Madeline Lester, at the age of eighteen, was the beauty and toast of the
whole country; with a mind no less beautiful than her form was graceful,
and a desire for study equalled only by her regard for those who
possessed it, a regard which had extended secretly, if all but
unacknowledged to herself, to the solitary scholar of whom I have been
speaking. Ellinor, her junior by two years, was of a character equally
gentle, but less elevated, and a beauty akin to her sister's.

When Eugene Aram arrived at the manor house in keeping with his promise,
something appeared to rest upon his mind, from which, however, by the
excitement lent by wine and occasional bursts of eloquence, he seemed
striving to escape, and at length he apparently succeeded.

When the ladies had retired, Lester and his guest resumed their talk in
the open, Walter declining to join them.

Aram was advancing the view that it is impossible for a man who leads
the life of the world ever to experience content.

"For me," observed the squire, "I have my objects of interest in my
children."

"And I mine in my books," said Aram.

As they passed over the village green, the gaunt form of Corporal
Bunting arrested their progress.

"Beg pardon, your honour," said he to the scholar, "but strange-looking
dog here last evening--asked after you--said you were old friend of
his--trotted off in your direction--hope all was right, master--augh!"

"All right," repeated Aram, fixing his eyes on the corporal, who had
concluded his speech with a significant wink. Then, as if satisfied with
his survey, he added, "Ay, ay; I know whom you mean. He had become
acquainted with me some years ago. I don't know--I know very little of
him." And the student was turning away, but stopped to add, "The man
called on me last night for assistance. I gave what I could afford, and
he has now proceeded on his journey. Good evening!"

Lester and his companion passed on, the former somewhat surprised, a
feeling increased when shortly afterwards Aram abruptly bade him
farewell. But, recalling the peculiar habits of the scholar, he saw that
the only way to hope for a continuance of that society which had so
pleased him was to indulge Aram at first in his unsocial inclinations;
and so, without further discourse, he shook hands with him, and they
parted.


_III.--The Old Riding-Whip_


When Lester regained the little parlour in his home he found his nephew
sitting, silent and discontented, by the window. Madeline had taken up a
book, and Ellinor, in an opposite corner, was plying her needle with an
earnestness that contrasted with her customary cheerful vivacity.

The squire thought he had cause to complain of his nephew's conduct to
their guest. "You eyed the poor student," he said, "as if you wished him
amongst the books of Alexandria."

"I would he were burnt with them!" exclaimed Walter sharply. "He seems
to have bewitched my fair cousins here into a forgetfulness of all but
himself."

"Not me!" said Ellinor eagerly.

"No, not you; you are too just. It is a pity Madeline is not more like
you."

Thus was disturbance first introduced into a peaceful family. Walter was
jealous; he could not control his feelings. An open breach followed, not
only between him and Aram, but a quarrel between him and Madeline. The
position came as a revelation to his uncle, who, seeing no other way out
of the difficulty, yielded to Walter's request that he should be allowed
to travel.

Meanwhile, Aram, drawn out of his habitual solitude by the sweet
influence of Madeline, became a frequent visitor to the manor house and
the acknowledged suitor for Madeline's hand. As for Walter, when he set
out for London, with Corporal Bunting as his servant, he had found
consolation in the discovery that Ellinor's regard for him had gone
beyond mere cousinly affection. His uncle gave him several letters of
introduction to old friends; among them one to Sir Peter Hales, and
another to a Mr. Courtland.

An incident that befell him on the London road revived to an
extraordinary degree Walter's desire to ascertain the whereabouts of his
long-lost father. At the request of Sir Peter Hales he had alighted at a
saddler's for the purpose of leaving a parcel committed to him, when his
attention was attracted by an old-fashioned riding-whip. Taking it up,
he found it bore his own crest, and his father's initials, "G.L." Much
agitated, he made quick inquiries, and learned that the whip had been
left for repair about twelve years previously by a gentleman who was
visiting Mr. Courtland, and had not been heard of since.

Eagerly he sought out Mr. Courtland, and gleaned news which induced him,
much to Corporal Bunting's disgust, to set his back on London, and make
his way with all speed in the direction of Knaresborough. It appeared
that at the time the whip was left at the saddler's, Geoffrey Lester had
just returned from India, and when he called on his old acquaintance,
Mr. Courtland, he was travelling to the historic town in the West Riding
to claim a legacy his old colonel--he had been in the army--had left him
for saving his life. The name Geoffrey Lester had assumed on entering
the army was Clarke.


_IV.--Hush-Money_


While Walter Lester and Corporal Bunting were passing northward, the
squire of Grassdale saw, with evident complacency, the passion growing
up between his friend and his daughter. He looked upon it as a tie that
would permanently reconcile Aram to the hearth of social and domestic
life; a tie that would constitute the happiness of his daughter and
secure to himself a relation in the man he felt most inclined of all he
knew to honour and esteem. Aram seemed another man; and happy indeed was
Madeline in the change. But one evening, while the two were walking
together, and Aram was discoursing on their future, Madeline uttered a
faint shriek, and clung trembling to her lover's arm.

Amazed and roused from his enthusiasm, Aram looked up, and, on seeing
the cause of her alarm, seemed himself transfixed, as by a sudden terror
to the earth.

But a few paces distant, standing amidst the long and rank fern that
grew on each side of their path, quite motionless, and looking on the
pair with a sarcastic smile, stood the ominous stranger whom we first
met at the sign of the Spotted Dog.

"Pardon me, dear Madeline," said Aram, softly disengaging himself from
her, "but for one moment."

He then advanced to the stranger, and after a conversation that lasted
but a minute, the latter bowed, and, turning away, soon vanished among
the shrubs.

Aram, regaining the side of Madeline, explained, in answer to her
startled inquiries, that the man, whom he had known well some fourteen
years ago, had again come to ask for his help, and he supposed that he
would again have to aid him.

"And is that indeed _all_?" said Madeline, breathing more freely. "Well,
poor man, if he be your friend, he must be inoffensive. Here, Eugene."
And the simple-hearted girl put her purse into Aram's hand.

"No, dearest," said he, shrinking back. "I can easily spare him enough.
But let us turn back. It grows chill."

"And why did he leave us, Eugene?"

"Because," was the reply, "I desired him to visit me at home an hour
hence."

There was a past shared by these two men, and Houseman--for that was the
stranger's name--had come for the price of his silence. The next day, on
the plea of an old debt that suddenly had to be met, Aram approached his
prospective father-in-law for the loan of £300. This sum was readily
placed at his disposal. Indeed, he was offered double the amount. His
next action was to travel to London, where, with all the money at his
command, he purchased an annuity for Houseman, falling back, for his own
needs, upon the influence of Lord ---- to secure for him a small state
allowance which it was in that nobleman's power to grant to him as a
needy man of letters.

Houseman was surprised at the scholar's generosity when the paper
ensuring the annuity was placed in his hands. "Before daybreak
to-morrow," he said, "I will be on the road. You may now rest assured
that you are free of me for life. Go home--marry--enjoy your existence.
Within four days, if the wind set fair, I shall be in France."

The pale face of Eugene Aram brightened. He had resolved, had Houseman's
attitude been different, to surrender Madeline at once.


_V.--Human Bones_


The unexpected change in her lover's demeanour, on his return to
Grassdale, brought unspeakable joy to the heart of Madeline Lester. But
hardly had Aram left Houseman's squalid haunt in Lambeth when a letter
was put into the ruffian's hand telling of his daughter's serious
illness. For this daughter Houseman, villain as he was, would willingly
have given his life. Now, casting all other thoughts aside, he set
forth, not for France, but for Knaresborough, where his daughter was
lying, and whither, guided by his inquiries concerning his father,
Walter Lester was also on his way.

It was not long ere Walter found that a certain Colonel Elmore had died
in 17--, leaving £1,000 and a house to one Daniel Clarke, and that an
executor of the colonel's will survived in the person of a Mr. Jonas
Elmore. From Mr. Elmore, Walter learned that Clarke had disappeared
suddenly, after receiving the legacy, taking with him a number of jewels
with which Mr. Elmore had entrusted him. His disappearance had caused a
sensation at the time, and a man named Houseman had assigned as a cause
of Clarke's disappearance a loan which he did not mean to repay. It was
true that Houseman and a young scholar named Eugene Aram had been
interrogated by the authorities, but nothing could be proved against
them, and certainly nothing was suspected where Aram was concerned. He
left Knaresborough soon after Clarke had disappeared, having received a
legacy from a relative at York.

This story of a legacy Walter was not inclined to believe, but proof of
it was forthcoming. Another circumstance in Aram's favour was that his
memory was still honoured in the town, by the curate, Mr. Summers, as
well as by others.

Accompanied by Mr. Summers, Walter visited the house where Daniel Clarke
had stayed and also the woman at whose house Aram had lived. It was a
lonely, desolate-looking house; its solitary occupant a woman who
evidently had been drinking. When the name of Eugene Aram was mentioned,
the woman assumed a mysterious air, and eventually disclosed the fact
that she had seen Mr. Clarke, Houseman and Aram enter Aram's room early
one morning. They went away together. A little later Aram and Houseman
returned. She found out afterwards that they had been burning some
clothes. She also discovered a handkerchief belonging to Houseman with
blood upon it. She had shown this to Houseman, who had threatened to
shoot her should she say a word to anyone regarding himself or his
companions.

Armed with this narrative, extracted by the promise of pecuniary reward,
Walter and Mr. Summers were making their way to a magistrate's when
their attention was attracted by a crowd. A workman, digging for
limestone, had unearthed a big wooden chest. The chest contained a
skeleton!

In the midst of the commotion caused by this discovery a voice broke out
abruptly. It was that of Richard Houseman. His journey had been in vain.
His daughter was dead. His appearance revealed all too plainly to what
source he had flown for consolation.

"What do ye here, fools?" he cried, reeling forward. "Ha! Human bones!
And whose may they be, think ye?"

There were in the crowd those who remembered the disappearance which had
so surprised them years before, and more than one repeated the name of
"Daniel Clarke."

"Clarke's bones!" exclaimed Houseman. "Ha, ha! They are no more Clarke's
than mine!"

At this moment Walter stepped forward.

"Behold!" he cried, in a ringing voice, vibrant with emotion--"behold
the murderer!"

Pale, confused, conscience-stricken, the bewilderment of intoxication
mingling with that of fear, Houseman gasped out that if they wanted the
bones of Clarke they should search St. Robert's Cave. And in the place
he named they found at last the unhallowed burial-place of the murdered
dead.

But Houseman, now roused by a sense of personal danger, denied that he
was the guilty man. Drawing his breath hard, and setting his teeth as
with steeled determination, he cried, "The murderer is Eugene Aram!"


_VI.--"I Murdered my Own Life"_


It was a chill morning in November. But at Grassdale all was bustle and
excitement. The church bells were ringing merry peals. It wanted but an
hour or so to the wedding of Eugene Aram and Madeline Lester. In this
interval the scholar was alone with his thoughts. His reverie was rudely
disturbed by a loud knocking, the noise of which penetrated into his
study. The outer door was opened. Voices were heard.

"Great God!" he exclaimed. "'Murderer!' Was that the word I heard
shouted forth? The voice, too, is Walter Lester's. Can he have
learned----"

Calm succeeded to the agitation of the moment. He met the newcomers with
a courageous front. But, followed by his bride who was to be, by her
sister Ellinor, and by their father, all confident that Walter had made
some horrible mistake, Eugene Aram was taken away to be committed to
York on the capital charge.

The law's delays were numerous. Winter passed into spring, and spring
into summer before the trial came on. Eugene Aram's friends were
numerous. Lord ---- firmly believed in his innocence, and proffered
help. But the prisoner refused legal aid, and conducted his own
defence--how ably history records. Madeline was present at the closing
scene, in her wedding dress. Her father was all but broken in his grief
for daughter and friend. Walter was distraught by the havoc he had
caused, and in doubt whether, after all, his action had not been too
impetuous. The court was deeply impressed by the prisoner's defence. But
the judge's summing-up was all against the accused, and the verdict was
"Guilty!" Madeline lived but a few hours after hearing it.

The following evening Walter obtained admittance to the condemned cell.

"Eugene Aram," he said, in tones of agony, "if at this moment you can
lay your hand on your heart, and say, 'Before God, and at peril of my
soul, I am innocent of this deed,' I will depart; I will believe you,
and bear as I may the reflection that I have been one of the unconscious
agents in condemning to a fearful death an innocent man. But if you
cannot at so dark a crisis take that oath, then, oh then, be generous,
even in guilt, and let me not be haunted through life by the spectre of
a ghastly and restless doubt!"

On the eve of the day destined to be his last on earth Eugene Aram
placed in Walter's hands a paper which that young man pledged himself
not to read till Rowland Lester's grey hairs had gone to the grave. This
document set forth at length the story of Aram's early life, how he
sought knowledge amidst grinding poverty, and how, when a gigantic
discovery in science gleamed across his mind, a discovery which only
lack of means prevented him from realising to the vast benefit of truth
and man, the tempter came to him. This tempter took the form of a
distant relative, Richard Houseman, with his doctrine that "Laws order
me to starve, but self-preservation is an instinct more sacred than
society," and his demand for co-operation in an act of robbery from one
Daniel Clarke, whose crimes were many, who was, moreover, on the point
of disappearing with a number of jewels he had borrowed on false
pretences.

"Houseman lied," wrote the condemned man. "I did not strike the blow. I
never designed a murder. But the deed was done, and Houseman divided the
booty. My share he buried in the earth, leaving me to withdraw it when I
chose. There, perhaps, it lies still. I never touched what I had
murdered my _own_ life to gain. Three days after that deed a relative,
who had neglected me in life, died and left me wealth--wealth, at least,
to me! Wealth greater than that for which I had----My ambition died in
remorse!"

Houseman passed away in his own bed. But he had to be buried secretly in
the dead of night, for, ten years after Eugene Aram had died on the
scaffold, the hatred of the world survived for his accomplice. Rowland
Lester did not live long after Madeline's death. But when Walter
returned from a period of honourable service with the great Frederick of
Prussia, it was with no merely cousinly welcome that Ellinor received
him.

       *       *       *       *       *




The Last Days of Pompeii


     "The Last Days of Pompeii," the most popular of Lytton's
     historical romances, was begun and almost completed at Naples
     in the winter of 1832-3, and was first published in 1834. The
     period dealt with is that of 79 A.D., during the short reign
     of Titus, when Rome was at its zenith and the picturesque
     Campanian city a kind of Rome-by-the-Sea. Lytton wrote the
     novel some thirty years before the excavations of Pompeii had
     been systematically begun; but his pictures of the life, the
     luxuries, the pastimes and the gaiety of the half-Grecian
     colony, its worship of Isis, its trade with Alexandria, and
     the early struggles of Christianity with heathen superstition
     are exceptionally vivid. The creation of Nydia, the blind
     flower-girl, was suggested by the casual remark of an
     acquaintance that at the time of the destruction of Pompeii
     the sightless would have found the easiest deliverance.


_I.--The Athenian's Love Story_


Within the narrow compass of the walls of Pompeii was contained a
specimen of every gift which luxury offered to power. In its minute but
glittering shops, its tiny palaces, its baths, its forum, its theatre,
its circus--in the energy yet corruption, in the refinement yet the
vice, of its people, you beheld a model of the whole Roman Empire. It
was a toy, a plaything, a show-box, in which the gods seemed pleased to
keep the representation of the great monarchy of earth, and which they
afterwards hid from time, to give to the wonder of posterity--the moral
of the maxim, that under the sun there is nothing new.

Crowded in the glassy bay were vessels of commerce and gilded galleys
for the pleasures of the rich citizens. The boats of the fishermen
glided to and fro, and afar off you saw the tall masts of the fleet
under the command of Pliny.

Drawing a comrade from the crowded streets, Glaucus the Greek, newly
returned to Pompeii after a journey to Naples, bent his steps towards a
solitary part of the beach; and the two, seated on a small crag which
rose amidst the smooth pebbles, inhaled the voluptuous and cooling
breeze which, dancing over the waters, kept music with its invisible
feet. There was something in the scene which invited them to silence and
reverie.

Clodius, the aedile, who sought the wherewithal for his pleasures at the
gaming table, shaded his eyes from the burning sky, and calculated the
gains of the past week. He was one of the many who found it easy to
enrich themselves at the expense of his companion. The Greek, leaning
upon his hand, and shrinking not from that sun, his nation's tutelary
deity, with whose fluent light of poesy and joy and love his own veins
were filled, gazed upon the broad expanse, and envied, perhaps, every
wind that bent its pinions toward the shores of Greece.

Glaucus obeyed no more vicious dictates when he wandered into the
dissipations of his time that the exhilarating voices of youth and
health. His heart never was corrupted. Of far more penetration than
Clodius and others of his gay companions deemed, he saw their design to
prey upon his riches and his youth; but he despised wealth save as the
means of enjoyment, and youth was the great sympathy that united him to
them. To him the world was one vast prison to which the sovereign of
Rome was the imperial gaoler, and the very virtues which, in the free
days of Athens, would have made him ambitious, in the slavery of earth
made him inactive and supine.

"Tell me, Clodius," said the Athenian at last, "hast thou ever been in
love?"

"Yes, very often."

"He who has loved often," answered Glaucus, "has loved never."

"Art thou, then, soberly and earnestly in love? Hast thou that feeling
which the poets describe--a feeling which makes us neglect our suppers,
forswear the theatre, and write elegies? I should never have thought it.
You dissemble well."

"I am not far gone enough for that," returned Glaucus, smiling. "In
fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there but be occasion to see
the object."

"Shall I guess the object? Is it not Diomed's daughter? She adores you,
and does not affect to conceal it. She is both handsome and rich. She
will bind the door-post of her husband with golden fillets."

"No, I do not desire to sell myself. Diomed's daughter is handsome, I
grant; and at one time, had she not been the grandchild of a freedman, I
might have--yet, no--she carries all her beauty in her face; her manners
are not maiden-like, and her mind knows no culture save that of
pleasure."

"You are ungrateful. Tell me, then, who is the fortunate virgin."

"You shall hear, my Clodius. Several months ago I was sojourning at
Naples, a city utterly to my own heart. One day I entered the temple of
Minerva to offer up my prayers, not for myself more than for the city on
which Pallas smiles no longer. The temple was empty and deserted. The
recollections of Athens crowded fast and meltingly upon me. Imagining
myself still alone, my prayer gushed from my heart to my lips, and I
wept as I prayed. I was startled in the midst of my devotions, however,
by a deep sigh. I turned suddenly, and just behind me was a female. She
had raised her veil also in prayer, and when our eyes met, methought a
celestial ray shot from those dark and smiling orbs at once into my
soul.

"Never, my Clodius, have I seen mortal face more exquisitely moulded. A
certain melancholy softened, and yet elevated, its expression. Tears
were rolling down her eyes. I guessed at once that she was of Athenian
lineage. I spoke to her, though with a faltering voice. 'Art thou not,
too, Athenian?' said I. At the sound of my voice she blushed, and half
drew her veil across her face. 'My forefathers' ashes,' she said,
'repose by the waters of Ilyssus; my birth is of Naples; but my heart,
as my lineage, is Athenian.'

"'Let us, then,' said I, 'make our offerings together!' And as the
priest now appeared, we stood side by side, and so followed the
ceremonial prayer. Together we touched the knees of the goddess;
together we laid our olive garlands on the altar. Silently we left the
temple, and I was about to ask her where she dwelt, when a youth, whose
features resembled hers, took her by the hand. She turned and bade me
farewell, the crowd parted us, and I saw her no more; nor when I
returned to Naples after a brief absence at Athens, was I able to
discover any clue to my lost country-woman. So, hoping to lose in gaiety
all remembrance of that beautiful apparition, I hastened to plunge
myself amidst the luxuries of Pompeii. This is all my history, I do not
love but I remember and regret."

So said Glaucus. But that very night, in a house at Pompeii, whither she
had come from Naples during his absence, Glaucus came face to face once
more with the beautiful lone, the object of his dreams. And no longer
was he able to say, "I do not love."


_II.--Arbaces, the Egyptian_


Amongst the wealthy dwellers in Pompeii was one who lived apart, and was
at once an object of suspicion and fear. The riches of this man, who was
known as Arbaces, the Egyptian, enabled him to gratify to the utmost the
passions which governed him--the passion of sensual indulgence and the
blind force which impelled him to seek relief from physical satiety in
the pursuit of that occult knowledge which he regarded as the heritage
of his race.

In Naples, Arbaces had known the parents of Ione and her brother
Apaecides, and it was under his guardianship that they had come to
Pompeii. The confidence which, before their death, their parents had
reposed in the Egyptian was in turn fully given to him by lone and her
brother. For Apaecides the Egyptian felt nothing but contempt; the youth
was to him but an instrument that might be used by him in bending lone
to his will. But the mind of Ione, no less than the beauty of her form,
appealed to Arbaces. With her by his side, his willing slave, he saw no
limit to the heights his ambition might soar to. He sought primarily to
impress her with his store of unfamiliar knowledge. She, in turn,
admired him for his learning, and felt grateful to him for his
guardianship. Apaecides, docile and mild, with a soul peculiarly alive
to religious fervour, Arbaces placed amongst the priests of Isis, and
under the special care of a creature of his own, named Calenus. It
pleased his purpose best, where Ione was concerned, to leave her awhile
surrounded by the vain youth of Pompeii, so that he might gain by
comparison.

It fell not within Arbaces' plans to show himself too often to his ward.
Consequently it was some time before he became aware of the warmth of
the friendship that was growing up between Ione and the handsome Greek.
He knew not of their evening excursions on the placid sea, of their
nightly meetings at Ione's dwelling, till these had become regular
happenings in their daily lives. But one day he surprised them together,
and his eyes were suddenly opened. No sooner had the Greek departed than
the Egyptian sought to poison Ione's mind against him by exaggerating
his love of pleasure and by unscrupulously describing him as making
light of Ione's love.

Following up the advantage he gained by this appeal to her pride,
Arbaces reminded Ione that she had never seen the interior of his home.
It might, he said, amuse her. "Devote then," he went on, "to the austere
friend of your youth one of these bright summer evenings, and let me
boast that my gloomy mansion has been honoured with the presence of the
admired Ione."

Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of the danger that awaited
her, Ione readily assented to the proposal. But there was one who, by
accident, had become aware of the nature of the spells cast by Arbaces
upon his visitors, and who was to be the humble means of saving lone
from his toils. This was the blind flower-girl Nydia.

Of Thessalian extraction, and gentle nurture, Nydia had been stolen and
sold into the slavery of an ex-gladiator named Burbo, a relative of the
false priest Calenus. To save her from the cruelty of Burbo, Glaucus had
purchased her, and, in return, the blind girl had become devoted to
him--so devoted that her gentle heart was torn when he made it plain to
her that his action was prompted by mere natural kindness of heart, and
that it was his purpose to send her to Ione.

But she cast all feeling of jealousy aside when she heard of Ione's
visit to the Egyptian, and quickly apprised Glaucus and Apaecides of the
fair Athenian's peril.

On her arrival, Arbaces greeted Ione with deep respect. But he found it
harder than he thought to resist the charm of her presence in his house,
and in a moment of forgetful passion he declared his love for her.
"Arbaces," he declared, "shall have no ambition save the pride of
obeying thee--Ione. Ione, do not reject my love!" And as he spoke he
knelt before her.

Alone, and in the grip of this singular and powerful man, Ione was not
yet terrified; the respect of his language, the softness of his voice,
reassured her; and in her own purity she felt protection. But she was
confused, astonished. It was some moments before she could recover the
power of reply.

"Rise, Arbaces," said she at length. "Rise! and if thou art serious, if
thy language be in earnest----"

"_If_----" said he tenderly.

"Well, then, listen. You have been my guardian, my friend, my monitor.
For this new character I was not prepared. Think not," she added
quickly, as she saw his dark eyes glitter with the fierceness of his
passion, "think not that I scorn; that I am untouched; that I am not
honoured by this homage; but, say, canst thou hear me calmly?"

"Ay, though the words were lightning and could blast me!"

"_I love another_!" said Ione blushingly, but in a firm voice.

"By the gods," shouted Arbaces, rising to his fullest height, "dare not
tell me that! Dare not mock me! It is impossible! Whom hast thou seen?
Whom known? Oh, Ione, it is thy woman's invention, thy woman's art that
speaks; thou wouldst gain time. I have surprised--I have terrified
thee."

"Alas!" began Ione; and then, appalled before his sudden and unlooked
for violence, she burst into tears.

Arbaces came nearer to her, his breath glowed fiercely on her cheek. He
wound his arms round her; she sprang from his embrace. In the struggle a
tablet fell from her bosom. Arbaces perceived, and seized it; it was a
letter she had received that morning from Glaucus.

Ione sank upon the couch, half-dead with terror.

Rapidly the eyes of Arbaces ran over the writing. He read it to the end,
and then, as the letter fell from his hand, he said, in a voice of
deceitful calmness, "Is the writer of this the man thou lovest?"

Ione sobbed, but answered not.

"Speak!" he demanded.

"It is--it is!"

"Then hear me," said Arbaces, sinking his voice into a whisper. "_Thou
shalt go to thy tomb rather than to his arms_."

At this instant a curtain was rudely torn aside, and Glaucus and
Apsecides appeared. There was a severe struggle, which might have had a
more sinister ending had not the marble head of a goddess, shaken from
its column, fallen upon Arbaces as he was about to stab the Greek, and
struck the Egyptian senseless to the ground. As it was, Ione was saved,
and she and her lover were then and for ever reconciled to one another.


_III.--The Love Philtre_


Clodius had not spoken without warrant when he had said that Julia, the
daughter of the rich merchant Diomed, thought herself in love with
Glaucus. But since Glaucus was denied to her, her thoughts were
concentrated on revenge. In this mood she sought out Arbaces, presenting
herself as one loving unrequitedly, and seeking in sorrow the aid of
wisdom.

"It is a love charm," admitted Julia, "that I would seek from thy skill.
I know not if I love him who loves me not, but I know that I would see
myself triumph over a rival. I would see him who has rejected me my
suitor. I would see her whom he has preferred in her turn despised."

Very quickly Arbaces discerned Julia's secret, and when he heard that
Glaucus and Ione were shortly to be wedded, he gladly availed himself of
this opportunity to rid himself of his hated rival. But he dealt not in
love potions, he said; he would, however, take Diomed's daughter to one
who did--the witch who dwelt on the slopes of Vesuvius.

He kept his promise; but the entire philtre given to Julia was one which
went direct to the brain, and the effects of which--for neither Arbaces
nor his creature, the witch, wished to place themselves within the power
of the law--were such as caused those who witnessed them to attribute
them to some supernatural agency.

But once again, though less happily than on the former occasion, Nydia
was destined to be the means of thwarting the schemes of the Egyptian.
The devotion of the blind flower-girl had deepened into love for her
deliverer. She was jealous of Ione. Now, for Julia had taken her into
confidence, and both believed in the love charm, she was confronted with
another rival. By a simple ruse Nydia obtained the poisoned draught and
in its place substituted a phial of simple water.

At the close of a banquet given by Diomed, to which the Greek was
invited, Julia duly administered that which she imagined to be the
secret love potion. She was disappointed when she found Glaucus coldly
replace the cup, and converse with her in the same unmoved tone as
before.

"But to-morrow," thought she, "to-morrow, alas for Glaucus!"

Alas for him, indeed!

When Glaucus arrived at his own house that evening, Nydia was waiting
for him. She had, as usual, been tending the flowers and had lingered
awhile to rest herself.

"It has been warm," said Glaucus. "Wilt thou summon Davus? The wine I
have drunk heats me, and I long for some cooling drink."

Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very opportunity that Nydia
awaited presented itself. She breathed quickly. "I will prepare for you
myself," said she, "the summer draught that Ione loves--of honey and
weak wine cooled in snow."

"Thanks," said the unconscious Glaucus. "If Ione loves it, enough; it
would be grateful were it poison."

Nydia frowned, and then smiled. She withdrew for a few moments, and
returned with the cup containing the beverage. Glaucus took it from her
hand.

What would not Nydia have given then to have seen the first dawn of the
imagined love! Far different, as she stood then and there, were the
thoughts and emotions of the blind girl from those of the vain Pompeian
under a similar suspense!

Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips. He had already drained about a
fourth of its contents, when, suddenly glancing upon the face of Nydia,
he was so forcibly struck by its alteration, by its intense, and
painful, and strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and still
holding the cup near his lips, exclaimed. "Why, Nydia--Nydia, art thou
ill or in pain? What ails thee, my poor child?"

As he spoke, he put down the cup--happily for him, unfinished--and rose
from his seat to approach her, when a sudden pang shot coldly to his
heart, and was followed by a wild, confused, dizzy sensation at the
brain.

The floor seemed to glide from under him, his feet seemed to move on
air, a mighty and unearthly gladness rushed upon his spirit. He felt too
buoyant for the earth; he longed for wings--nay, it seemed as if he
possessed them. He burst involuntarily into a loud and thrilling laugh.
He clapped his hands, he bounced aloft. Suddenly this perpetual
transport passed, though only partially, away. He now felt his blood
rushing loudly and rapidly through his veins.

Then a kind of darkness fell over his eyes. Now a torrent of broken,
incoherent, insane words gushed from his lips, and, to Nydia's horror,
he passed the portico with a bound, and rushed down the starlit streets,
striking fear into the hearts of all who saw him.


_IV.--The Day of Ghastly Night_


Anxious to learn if the drug had taken effect, Arbaces set out for
Julia's house on the morrow. On his way he encountered Apaecides. Hot
words passed between them, and stung by the scorn of the youth, he
stabbed him into the heart with his stylus. At this moment Glaucus came
along. Quick as thought the Egyptian struck the already half-senseless
Greek to the ground, and steeping his stylus in the blood of Apaecides,
and recovering his own, called loudly for help. The next moment he was
accusing Glaucus of the crime.

For a time fortune favoured the Egyptian. Glaucus, his strong frame
still under the influence of the poison, was sentenced to encounter a
lion in the amphitheatre, with no weapon beyond the incriminating
stylus. Nydia, in her terror, confessed to the Egyptian the exchange of
the love philtre. She he imprisoned in his own house. Calenus, who had
witnessed the deed, sought Arbaces with the intention of using his
knowledge to his own profit. He, by a stratagem, was incarcerated in one
of the dungeons of the Egyptian's dwelling. The law gave Ione into the
guardianship of Arbaces. But, for a third time, Nydia was the means of
frustrating the plans of Arbaces.

The blind girl, when vainly endeavouring to escape from the toils of the
Egyptian, overheard, in his garden, the conversation of Arbaces and
Calenus; and she heard the cries of Calenus from behind the door of the
chamber in which he was imprisoned. She herself was caught again by
Arbaces' servant, but she contrived to bribe her keeper to take a
message to Glaucus's friend, Sallust; and he, taking his servants to
Arbaces' house released the two captives, and reached the arena with
them, to accuse Arbaces before the multitude at the very moment when the
lion was being goaded to attack the Greek, and Arbaces' victory seemed
within his grasp.

Even now the nerve of the Egyptian did not desert him. He met the charge
with his accustomed coolness. But the frenzied accusation of the priest
of Isis turned the huge assembly against him. With loud cries they rose
from their seats and poured down toward the Egyptian.

Lifting his eyes at this terrible moment, Arbaces beheld a strange and
awful apparition. He beheld, and his craft restored his courage. He
stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal features there
came an expression of unutterable solemnity and command.

"Behold," he shouted, with a voice of thunder, which stilled the roar of
the crowd, "behold how the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of the
avenging Orcus burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!"

The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld,
with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour shooting from the summit of
Vesuvius in the form of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk blackness, the
branches fire--a fire that shifted and wavered in its hues with every
moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again
blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare. The earth shook. The
walls of the theatre trembled. In the distance was heard the crash of
falling roofs. The cloud seemed to roll towards the assembly, casting
forth from its bosom showers of ashes mixed with fragments of burning
stone. Then the burning mountain cast up columns of boiling water.

In the ghastly night thus rushing upon the realm of noon, all thought of
justice and of Arbaces left the minds of the terrified people. There
ensued a mad flight for the sea. Through the darkness Nydia guided
Glaucus, now partly recovered from the effects of the poisoned draught,
and Ione to the shore. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her
alone.

While Arbaces perished with the majority, these three eventually gained
the sea, and joined a group, who, bolder than the rest, resolved to
hazard any peril rather than continue on the stricken land.

Utterly exhausted, Ione slept on the breast of Glaucus, and Nydia lay at
his feet. Meanwhile, showers of dust and ashes fell into the waves,
scattered their snows over the deck of the vessel they had boarded, and,
borne by the winds, descended upon the remotest climes, startling even
the swarthy African, and whirling along the antique soil of Syria and of
Egypt.

Meekly, softly, beautifully dawned at last the light over the trembling
deep! The winds were sinking into rest, the foam died from the azure of
that delicious sea. Around the east thin mists caught gradually the rosy
hues that heralded the morning. Light was about to resume her reign.
There was no shout from the mariners at the dawning light--it had come
too gradually, and they were too wearied for such sudden bursts of
joy--but there was a low, deep murmur of thankfulness amidst those
watchers of the long night. They looked at each other, and smiled; they
took heart. They felt once more that there was a world around and a God
above them!

In the silence of the general sleep Nydia had risen gently. Bending over
the face of Glaucus, she softly kissed him. She felt for his hand; it
was locked in that of Ione. She sighed deeply, and her face darkened.
Again she kissed his brow, and with her hair wiped from it the damps of
night.

"May the gods bless you, Athenian!" she murmured "May you be happy with
your beloved one! May you sometimes remember Nydia! Alas! she is of no
further use on earth."

With these words she turned away. A sailor, half-dozing on the deck,
heard a slight splash on the waters. Drowsily he looked up, and behind,
as the vessel bounded merrily on, he fancied he saw something white
above the waves; but it vanished in an instant. He turned round again
and dreamed of his home and children.

When the lovers awoke, their first thought was of each other, their next
of Nydia. Every crevice of the vessel was searched--there was no trace
of her! Mysterious from first to last, the blind Thessalian had vanished
from the living world! They guessed her fate in silence, and Glaucus and
Ione, while they drew nearer to each other, feeling each other the world
itself, forgot their deliverance, and wept as for a departed sister.

       *       *       *       *       *




The Last of the Barons


     A romance of York and Lancaster's "long wars," "The Last of
     the Barons" was published in 1843, shortly before the death of
     Bulwer's mother, when, on inheriting the Knebworth estates, he
     assumed the surname of Lytton. The story is an admirably
     chosen historical subject, and in many respects is worked out
     with even more than Lytton's usual power and effect. Incident
     is crowded upon incident; revolutions, rebellions,
     dethronements follow one another with amazing rapidity--all
     duly authenticated and elaborated by powerful dialogue. It is
     thronged with historical material, sufficient, according to
     one critic, to make at least three novels. The period dealt
     with, 1467-1471, witnessed the rise of the trading class and
     the beginning of religious freedom in England. Lytton leans to
     the Lancastrian cause, with which the fortunes of one of his
     ancestors were identified, and his view of Warwick is more
     favourable to the redoubtable "king-maker" than that of the
     historians.


_I.--Warwick's Mission to France_


Lacking sympathy with the monastic virtues of the deposed Henry VI., and
happy in the exile of Margaret of Anjou, the citizens of London had
taken kindly to the regime of Edward IV. In 1467 Edward still owed to
Warwick the support of the more powerful barons, as well as the favour
of that portion of the rural population which was more or less dependent
upon them. But he encouraged, to his own financial advantage, the
enterprises of the burgesses, and his marriage with Elizabeth Woodville
and his favours to her kinsfolk indicated his purpose to reign in fact
as well as in name. The barons were restless, but the rising
middle-class, jealous of the old power of the nobles, viewed with
misgiving the projected marriage, at Warwick's suggestion, of the king's
sister Margaret and the brother of Louis XI. of France.

This was the position of affairs when young Marmaduke Nevile came to
London to enter the service of his relative the Earl of Warwick; and
some points of it were explained to the young man by the earl himself
when he had introduced the youth to his daughters, Isabel and Anne.

"God hath given me no son," he said. "Isabel of Warwick had been a
mate for William the Norman; and my grandson, if heir to his grandsire's
soul, should have ruled from the throne of England over the realms of
Charlemagne! But it hath pleased Him Whom the Christian knight alone
bows to without shame, to order otherwise. So be it. I forgot my just
pretensions--forgot my blood--and counselled the king to strengthen his
throne by an alliance with Louis XI. He rejected the Princess Bona of
Savoy to marry widow Elizabeth Grey. I sorrowed for his sake, and
forgave the slight to my counsels. At his prayer I followed the train of
the queen, and hushed the proud hearts of the barons to obeisance. But
since then this Dame Woodville, whom I queened, if her husband mismated,
must dispute this royaulme with mine and me! A Neville, nowadays, must
vail his plume to a Woodville! And not the great barons whom it will
suit Edward's policy to win from the Lancastrians, not the Exeters and
the Somersets, but the craven varlets, and lackeys, and dross of the
camp--false alike to Henry and to Edward--are to be fondled into
lordships and dandled into power. Young man, I am speaking hotly.
Richard Neville never lies nor conceals; but I am speaking to a kinsman,
am I not? Thou hearest--thou wilt not repeat?"

"Sooner would I pluck forth my tongue by the roots!" was Marmaduke's
reply.

"Enough!" returned the earl, with a pleased smile. "When I come from
France I will speak more to thee. Meanwhile, be courteous to all men,
servile to none. Now to the king."

Warwick sought his royal cousin at the Tower, where the court exhibited
a laxity of morals and a faculty for intrigue that were little to the
stout earl's taste.

It was with manifest reluctance that Edward addressed himself to the
object of Warwick's visit.

"Knowst thou not," said he, "that this French alliance, to which thou
hast induced us, displeases sorely our good traders of London?"

"_Mort Dieu_!" returned Warwick bluntly. "And what business have the
flat-caps with the marriage of a king's sister? You have spoiled them,
good my lord king. Henry IV. staled not his majesty to consultation with
the mayor of his city. Henry V. gave the knighthood of the Bath to the
heroes of Agincourt, not to the vendors of cloth and spices."

"Thou forgettest, man," said the king carelessly, "the occasion of those
honours--the eve before Elizabeth was crowned. As to the rest," pursued
the king, earnestly and with dignity, "I and my house have owed much to
London. Thou seest not, my poor Warwick, that these burgesses are
growing up into power. And if the sword is the monarch's appeal for his
right, he must look to contented and honest industry for his buckler in
peace. This is policy, policy, Warwick; and Louis XI. will tell thee the
same truths, harsh though they grate in a warrior's ear."

The earl bowed his head.

"If thou doubtest the wisdom of this alliance," he said, "it is not too
late yet. Let me dismiss my following, and cross not the seas. Unless
thy heart is with the marriage, the ties I would form are but threads
and cobwebs."

"Nay," returned Edward irresolutely. "In these great state matters thy
wit is older than mine. But men do say the Count of Charolois is a
mighty lord, and the alliance with Burgundy will be more profitable to
staple and mart."

"Then, in God's name so conclude it!" said the earl hastily. "Give thy
sister to the heir of Burgundy, and forgive me if I depart to the castle
of Middleham. Yet think well. Henry of Windsor is thy prisoner, but his
cause lives in Margaret and his son. There is but one power in Europe
that can threaten thee with aid to the Lancastrians. That power is
France. Make Louis thy friend and ally, and thou givest peace to thy
life and thy lineage. Make Louis thy foe, and count on plots and
stratagems and treason. Edward, my loved, my honoured liege, forgive
Richard Nevile for his bluntness, and let not his faults stand in bar of
his counsels."

"You are right, as you are ever, safeguard of England and pillar of my
state," said the king frankly; and pressing Warwick's arm, he added, "go
to France, and settle all as thou wilt."

When Warwick had departed, Edward's eye followed him, musingly. The
frank expression of his face vanished, and with the deep breath of a man
who is throwing a weight from his heart, he muttered, "He loves me--yes;
but will suffer no one else to love me! This must end some day. I am
weary of the bondage."


_II.--A Dishonoured Embassy_


One morning, some time after Warwick's departure for France, the Lord
Hastings was summoned to the king's presence. There was news from
France, in a letter to Lord Rivers, from a gentleman in Warwick's train.
The letter was dated from Rouen, and gave a glowing account of the
honours accorded to the earl by Louis XI. Edward directed Hastings'
attention to a passage in which the writer suggested that there were
those who thought that so much intercourse between an English ambassador
and the kinsman of Margaret of Anjou boded small profit to the English
king.

"Read and judge, Hastings," said the king.

"I observe," said Hastings, "that this letter is addressed to my Lord
Rivers. Can he avouch the fidelity of his correspondent?"

"Surely, yes," answered Rivers. "It is a gentleman of my own blood."

"Were he not so accredited," returned Hastings, "I should question the
truth of a man who can thus consent to play the spy upon his lord and
superior."

"The public weal justifies all things," said Lord Worcester, who, with
Lord Rivers, viewed with jealous scorn the power of the Earl of Warwick.

"And what is to become of my merchant-ships," said the king, "if
Burgundy take umbrage and close its ports?"

Hastings had no cause to take up the quarrel on Warwick's behalf. The
proud earl had stepped in to prevent his marriage with his sister. But
Hastings, if a foe, could be a noble one.

"Beau sire," said he, "thou knowest how little cause I have to love the
Earl of Warwick. But in this council I must be all and only the king's
servant. I say first, then, that Warwick's faith to the House of York is
too well proven to become suspected because of the courtesies of King
Louis. Moreover, we may be sure that Warwick cannot be false if he
achieve the object of his embassy and detach Louis from the side of
Margaret and Lancaster by close alliance with Edward and York. Secondly,
sire, with regard to that alliance, which it seems you would repent, I
hold now, as I have held ever, that it is a master-stroke in policy, and
the earl in this proves his sharp brain worthy his strong arm; for, as
his highness the Duke of Gloucester has discovered that Margaret of
Anjou has been of late in London, and that treasonable designs were
meditated, though now frustrated, so we may ask why the friends of
Lancaster really stood aloof--why all conspiracy was, and is, in vain?
Because the gold and subsidies of Louis are not forthcoming, because the
Lancastrians see that if once Lord Warwick wins France from the Red Rose
nothing short of such a miracle as their gaining Warwick instead can
give a hope to their treason."

"Your pardon, my Lord Hastings," said Lord Rivers, "there is another
letter I have not yet laid before the king." He drew forth a scroll and
read from it as follows.

"Yesterday the earl feasted the king, and as, in discharge of mine
office, I carved for my lord, I heard King Louis say, '_Pasque Dieu_, my
Lord Warwick, our couriers bring us word that Count de Charolais
declares he shall yet wed the Lady Margaret, and that he laughs at your
embassage. What if our brother King Edward fall back from the treaty?'
'He durst not,' said the earl."

"'Durst not!'" exclaimed Edward, starting to his feet, and striking the
table with his clenched hand. "'Durst not!' Hastings, heard you that?"

Hastings bowed his head in assent.

"Is that all, Lord Rivers?"

"All! And, methinks, enough!"

"Enough, by my halidame!" said Edward, laughing bitterly. "He shall see
what a king dares when a subject threatens."

Lord Rivers had not read the whole of the letter. The sentence read: "He
durst not, because what a noble heart dares least is to belie the
plighted word, and what the kind heart shuns most is to wrong the
confiding friend."

When Warwick returned, with the object of his mission achieved, it was
to find Margaret of England the betrothed of the Count de Charolais, and
his embassy dishonoured. He retired in anger and grief to his castle of
Middleham, and though the king declared that "Edward IV. reigns alone,"
most of the great barons forsook him to rally round their leader in his
retirement.


_III.--The Scholar and his Daughter_


Sybill Warner had been at court in the train of Margaret of Anjou. Her
father, Adam Warner, was a poor scholar, with his heart set upon the
completion of an invention which should inaugurate the age of steam.
They lived together in an old house, with but one aged serving-woman.
Even necessaries were sacrificed that the model of the invention might
be fed. Then one day there came to Adam Warner an old schoolfellow,
Robert Hilyard, who had thrown in his lot with the Lancastrians, and
become an agent of the vengeful Margaret. Hilyard told so moving a tale
of his wrongs at the hands of Edward that the old man consented to aid
him in a scheme for communicating with the imprisoned Henry.

Henry was still permitted to see visitors, and Hilyard's proposal was
that Warner should seek permission to exhibit his model, in the
mechanism of which were to be hidden certain treasonable papers for
Henry to sign.

As we have seen, from Hastings' remark to the king, the plot failed.
Hilyard escaped, to stir up the peasantry, who knew him as Robin of
Redesdale. Warner's fate was inclusion in the number of astrologers and
alchemists retained by the Duchess of Bedford, who also gave a place
amongst her maidens to Sybill, to whom Hastings had proffered his
devoted attachment, though he was already bound by ties of policy and
early love to Margaret de Bonville.

Meanwhile, it became the interest of the king's brothers to act as
mediators between Edward and his powerful subject. The Duke of Clarence
was anxious to wed the proud earl's equally proud elder daughter Isabel;
the hand of the gentle Anne was sought more secretly by Richard of
Gloucester. At last the peacemakers effected their object.

But the peace was only partial, the final rupture not far off. The king
restored to Warwick the governorship of Calais--outwardly as a token of
honour; really as a means of ridding himself of one whose presence came
between the sun and his sovereignty. Moreover, he forbade the marriage
between Clarence and Isabel, to the mortification of his brother, the
bitter disappointment of Isabel herself, and the chagrin of the earl.

However, Edward had once more to experience indebtedness at the hands of
the man whom he treated so badly, but whose devotion to him it seemed
that nothing could destroy. There arose the Popular Rebellion, and
Warwick only arrived at Olney, where the king was sorely pressed, in
time to save him and to secure, on specific terms, a treaty of peace.

Again Edward's relief was but momentary. Proceeding to Middleham as
Warwick's guest, when he beheld the extent of the earl's retinue his
jealous passions were roused more than ever before; and he formed a plan
not only for attaching to himself the allegiance of the barons, but of
presenting the earl to the peasants in the light of one who had betrayed
them.

Smitten, too, by the charms of the Lady Anne, he meditated a still more
unworthy scheme. Dismissing the unsuspecting Warwick to the double task
of settling with the rebels and calling upon his followers to range
themselves under the royal banner, he commanded Anne's attendance at
court.

Events leading to the final breach between king and king-maker followed
rapidly. One night the Lady Anne fled in terror from the Tower--fled
from the dishonouring addresses of her sovereign, now grown gross in his
cups, however brave in battle. The news reached Warwick too late for him
to countermand the messages he had sent to his friends on the king's
behalf. And, so rapid were Edward's movements that Warwick, his eyes at
length opened to Edward's true character, was compelled to flee to the
court of King Louis at Amboise, there to plan his revenge, hampered in
doing so by his daughter Isabel's devotion to Clarence, who followed him
to France, and by the fact that, in regard to his own honour, he could
communicate to none save his own kin the secret cause of his open
disaffection.


_IV.--The Return of the King-Maker_


There was no love between Warwick and Margaret of Anjou. But his one
means of exacting penance from Edward was alliance with the unlucky
cause of Lancaster. And this alliance was brought about by the suave
diplomacy of Louis, and the discovery of the long-existing attachment
between the Lady Anne and her old play-fellow, Edward, the only son of
Henry and Margaret, and the hope of the Red Rose.

Coincidently with the marriage of Clarence and Isabel on French soil,
the young Edward and Isabel's sister were betrothed. Richard of
Gloucester was thus definitely estranged from Warwick's cause. And
secret agencies were set afoot to undermine the loyalty of the weak
Clarence to the cause which he had espoused.

At first, however, Warwick's plans prospered. He returned to England,
forced Edward to fly the country in his turn, and restored Henry VI. to
the throne. So far, Clarence and Isabel accompanied him; while Margaret
and her son, with Lady Warwick and the Lady Anne, remained at Amboise.

Then the very elements seemed to war against the Lancastrians. The
restoration came about in October 1470. Margaret was due in London in
November, but for nearly six months the state of the Channel was such
that she was unable to cross it.

Warwick sickened of his self-imposed task. The whole burden of
government rested upon the shoulders of the great earl, great where
deeds of valour were to be done, but weak in the niceties of
administration.

The nobles, no less than the people, had expected miracles. The
king-maker, on his return, gave them but justice. Such was the earl's
position when Edward, with a small following, landed at Ravenspur. A
treacherous message, sent to Warwick's brother Montagu by Clarence,
caused Montagu to allow the invader to march southwards unmolested. This
had so great an effect on public feeling that when Edward reached the
Midlands, he had not a mere handful of supporters at his back, but an
army of large dimensions. Then the wavering Clarence went over to his
brother, and it fell to the lot of the earl sorrowfully to dispatch
Isabel to the camp of his enemy.

But Warwick's cup of bitterness was not yet full. The Tower was
surrendered to Edward's friends, and on the following day Edward himself
entered the capital, to be received by the traders with tumultuous
cheers.

Raw, cold, and dismal dawned the morning of the fateful 14th of March,
1471, when Margaret at last reached English soil, and Edward's forces
met those of Warwick on the memorable field of Barnet. All was not yet
lost to the cause of the Red Rose. But a fog settled down over the land
to complete, as it were, the disadvantages caused by the prolonged
storms at sea. At a critical period of the battle the silver stars on
the banners of one of the Lancastrians, the Earl of Oxford, being
mistaken for the silver suns of Edward's cognisance, two important
sections of Warwick's army fell upon one another. Friend was
slaughtering friend ere the error was detected. While all was yet in
doubt, confusion, and dismay, rushed full into the centre Edward
himself, with his knights and riders; and his tossing banners added to
the general incertitude and panic.

Warwick and his brother gained the shelter of a neighbouring wood, where
a trusty band of the earl's northern archers had been stationed. Here
they made their last stand, Warwick destroying his charger to signify to
his men that to them and to them alone he entrusted his fortunes and his
life.

A breach was made in the defence, and Warwick and his brother fell side
by side, choosing death before surrender. And by them fell Hilyard,
shattered by a bombard. Young Marmaduke Nevile was among the few notable
survivors.

The cries of "Victory!" reached a little band of watchers gathered in
the churchyard on the hill of Hadley. Here Henry the Peaceful had been
conveyed. And here, also, were Adam Warner and his daughter. The
soldiers, hearing from one of the Duchess of Bedford's creatures whose
chicanery had been the object of his scorn, that Warner was a wizard,
had desired that his services should be utilised. Till the issue was
clear, he had been kept a prisoner. When it was beyond doubt, he was
hanged. Sybill was found lying dead at her father's feet. Her heart was
already broken, for the husband of Margaret de Bonville having died,
Lord Hastings had been recalled to the side of his old love, his thought
of marriage with Sybill being abandoned for ever.

King Edward and his brothers went to render thanksgiving at St. Paul's;
thence to Baynard's Castle to escort the queen and her children once
more to the Tower.

At the sight of the victorious king, of the lovely queen, and, above
all, of the young male heir, the crowd burst forth with a hearty cry:
"Long live the king and the king's son!"

Mechanically, Elizabeth turned her moistened eyes from Edward to
Edward's brother, and suddenly clasped her infant closer to her bosom
when she caught the glittering and fatal eye of Richard, Duke of
Gloucester--Warwick's grim avenger in the future--fixed upon that
harmless life, destined to interpose a feeble obstacle between the
ambition of a ruthless intellect and the heritage of the English throne!

       *       *       *       *       *




HENRY MACKENZIE


The Man of Feeling


     Henry Mackenzie, the son of an Edinburgh physician, was born
     in that city on August 26, 1745. He was educated for the law,
     and at the age of twenty became attorney for the crown in
     Scotland. It was about this time that he began to devote his
     attention to literature. His first story, "The Man of
     Feeling," was published anonymously in 1771, and such was its
     popularity that its authorship was claimed in many quarters.
     Considered as a novel, "The Man of Feeling" is frankly
     sentimental. Its fragmentary form was doubtlessly suggested by
     Sterne's "Sentimental Journey," and the adventures of the hero
     himself are reminiscent of those of Moses in "The Vicar of
     Wakefield." But of these two masterpieces Mackenzie's work
     falls short: it has none of Sterne's humour, nor has it any of
     Goldsmith's subtle characterisation. "The Man of Feeling" was
     followed in 1773 by "The Man of the World," and later by a
     number of miscellaneous articles and stories. Mackenzie died
     on January 14, 1831.


_I.--A Whimsical History_


I was out shooting with the curate on a burning First of September, and
we had stopped for a minute by an old hedge.

Looking round, I discovered for the first time a venerable pile, to
which the enclosure before us belonged. An air of melancholy hung about
it, and just at that instant I saw pass between the trees a young lady
with a book in her hand. The curate sat him down on the grass and told
me that was the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman of the name of
Walton, whom he had seen walking there more than once.

"Some time ago," he said, "one Harley lived there, a whimsical sort of
man, I am told. The greatest part of his history is still in my
possession. I once began to read it, but I soon grew weary of the task;
for, besides that the hand is intolerably bad, I never could find the
author in one strain for two chapters together. The way I came by it was
this. Some time ago a grave, oddish kind of a man boarded at a farmer's
in this parish. He left soon after I was made curate, and went nobody
knows whither; and in his room was found a bundle of papers, which was
brought to me by his landlord."

"I should be glad to see this medley," said I.

"You shall see it now," answered the curate, "for I always take it along
with me a-shooting. 'Tis excellent wadding."

When I returned to town I had leisure to peruse the acquisition I had
made, and found it a little bundle of episodes, put together without
art, yet with something of nature.

The curate must answer for the omissions.


_II.--The Man of Feeling in Love_


Harley lost his father, the last surviving of his parents, when he was a
boy. His education, therefore, had been but indifferently attended to;
and after being taken from a country school, the young gentleman was
suffered to be his own master in the subsequent branches of literature,
with some assistance from the pastor of the parish in languages and
philosophy, and from the exciseman in arithmetic and book-keeping.

There were two ways of increasing his fortune. One of these was the
prospect of succeeding to an old lady, a distant relation, who was known
to be possessed of a very large sum in the stocks. But the young man was
so untoward in his disposition, and accommodated himself so ill to her
humour, that she died and did not leave him a farthing.

The other method pointed out to him was an endeavour to get a lease of
some crown lands which lay contiguous to his little paternal estate. As
the crown did not draw so much rent as Harley could afford to give, with
very considerable profit to himself, it was imagined this lease might be
easily procured. However, this needed some interest with the great,
which neither Harley nor his father ever possessed.

His neighbour, Mr. Walton, having heard of this affair, generously
offered his assistance to accomplish it, and said he would furnish him
with a letter of introduction to a baronet of his acquaintance who had a
great deal to say with the first lord of the treasury.

Harley, though he had no great relish for the attempt, could not resist
the torrent of motives that assaulted him, and a day was fixed for his
departure.

The day before he set out he went to take leave of Mr. Walton--there was
another person of the family to whom also the visit was intended. For
Mr. Walton had a daughter; and such a daughter!

As her father had some years retired to the country, Harley had frequent
opportunities of seeing her. He looked on her for some time merely with
that respect and admiration which her appearance seemed to demand; he
heard her sentiments with peculiar attention, but seldom declared his
opinions on the subject. It would be trite to observe the easy gradation
from esteem to love; in the bosom of Harley there scarce needed a
transition.

Harley's first effort to interview the baronet met with no success, but
he resolved to make another attempt, fortified with higher notions of
his own dignity, and with less apprehensions of repulse. By the time he
had reached Grosvenor Square and was walking along the pavement which
led to the baronet's he had brought his reasoning to the point that by
every rule of logic his conclusions should have led him to a thorough
indifference in approaching a fellow-mortal, whether that fellow-mortal
was possessed of six or six thousand pounds a year. Nevertheless, it is
certain that when he approached the great man's door he felt his heart
agitated by an unusual pulsation.

He observed a young gentleman coming out, dressed in a white frock and a
red laced waistcoat; who, as he passed, very politely made him a bow,
which Harley returned, though he could not remember ever having seen him
before. The stranger asked Harley civilly if he was going to wait on his
friend the baronet. "For I was just calling," said he, "and am sorry to
find that he is gone some days into the country."

Harley thanked him for his information, and turned from the door, when
the other observed that it would be proper to leave his name, and very
obligingly knocked for that purpose.

"Here is a gentleman, Tom, who meant to have waited on your master."

"Your name, if you please, sir?"

"Harley."

"You'll remember, Tom, Harley."

The door was shut.

"Since we are here," said the stranger, "we shall not lose our walk if
we add a little to it by a turn or two in Hyde Park."

The conversation as they walked was brilliant on the side of his
companion.

When they had finished their walk and were returning by the corner of
the park they observed a board hung out of a window signifying, "An
excellent ordinary on Saturdays and Sundays." It happened to be
Saturday, and the table was covered for the purpose.

"What if we should go in and dine, sir?" said the young gentleman.
Harley made no objection, and the stranger showed him the way into the
parlour.

Over against the fire-place was seated a man of a grave aspect, who wore
a pretty large wig, which had once been white, but was now of a brownish
yellow; his coat was a modest coloured drab; and two jack-boots
concealed in part the well-mended knees of an old pair of buckskin
breeches. Next him sat another man, with a tankard in his hand and a
quid of tobacco in his cheek, whose dress was something smarter.

The door was soon opened for the admission of dinner. "I don't know how
it is with you, gentlemen," said Harley's new acquaintance, "but I am
afraid I shall not be able to get down a morsel at this horrid
mechanical hour of dining." He sat down, however, and did not show any
want of appetite by his eating. He took upon him the carving of the
meat, and criticised the goodness of the pudding, and when the
tablecloth was removed proposed calling for some punch, which was
readily agreed to.

While the punch lasted the conversation was wholly engrossed by this
young gentleman, who told a great many "immensely comical stories" and
"confounded smart things," as he termed them. At last the man in the
jack-boots, who turned out to be a grazier, pulling out a watch of very
unusual size, said that he had an appointment. And the young gentleman
discovered that he was already late for an appointment.

When the grazier and he were gone, Harley turned to the remaining
personage, and asked him if he knew that young gentleman. "A gentleman!"
said he. "I knew him, some years ago, in the quality of a footman. But
some of the great folks to whom he has been serviceable had him made a
ganger. And he has the assurance to pretend an acquaintance with men of
quality. The impudent dog! With a few shillings in his pocket, he will
talk three times as much as my friend Mundy, the grazier there, who is
worth nine thousand if he's worth a farthing. But I know the rascal, and
despise him as he deserves!"

Harley began to despise him, too, but he corrected himself by reflecting
that he was perhaps as well entertained, and instructed, too, by this
same ganger, as he should have been by such a man of fashion as he had
thought proper to personate.


_III.--Harley's Success with the Baronet_


The card he received was in the politest style in which disappointment
could be communicated. The baronet "was under a necessity of giving up
his application for Mr. Harley, as he was informed that the lease was
engaged for a gentleman who had long served his majesty in another
capacity, and whose merit had entitled him to the first lucrative thing
that should be vacant." Even Harley could not murmur at such a disposal.
"Perhaps," said he to himself, "some war-worn officer, who had been
neglected from reasons which merited the highest advancement; whose
honour could not stoop to solicit the preferment he deserved; perhaps,
with a family taught the principles of delicacy without the means of
supporting it; a wife and children--gracious heaven!--whom my wishes
would have deprived of bread--!"

He was interrupted in his reverie by someone tapping him on the
shoulder, and on turning round, he discovered it to be the very man who
had recently explained to him the condition of his gay companion.

"I believe we are fellows in disappointment," said he. Harley started,
and said that he was at a loss to understand him.

"Pooh! you need not be so shy," answered the other; "everyone for
himself is but fair, and I had much rather you had got it than the
rascally ganger. I was making interest for it myself, and I think I had
some title. I voted for this same baronet at the last election, and made
some of my friends do so, too; though I would not have you imagine that
I sold my vote. No, I scorn it--let me tell you I scorn it; but I
thought as how this man was staunch and true, and I find he's but a
double-faced fellow after all, and speechifies in the House for any side
he hopes to make most by. A murrain on the smooth-tongued knave, and
after all to get it for this rascal of a ganger."

"The ganger! There must be some mistake," said Harley. "He writes me
that it was engaged for one whose long services--"

"Services!" interrupted the other; "some paltry convenience to the
baronet. A plague on all rogues! I shall but just drink destruction to
them to-night and leave London to-morrow by sunrise."

"I shall leave it, too," said Harley; and so he accordingly did.

In passing through Piccadilly, he had observed on the window of an inn a
notification of the departure of a stage-coach for a place on his road
homewards; on the way back to his lodgings, he took a seat in it.


_IV.--He Meets an Old Acquaintance_


When the stage-coach arrived at the place of its destination, Harley,
who did things frequently in a way different from what other people call
natural, set out immediately afoot, having first put a spare shirt in
his pocket and given directions for the forwarding of his portmanteau.
It was a method of travelling which he was accustomed to take.

On the road, about four miles from his destination, Harley overtook an
old man, who from his dress had been a soldier, and walked with him.

"Sir," said the stranger, looking earnestly at him, "is not your name
Harley? You may well have forgotten my face, 'tis a long time since you
saw it; but possibly you may remember something of old Edwards? When you
were at school in the neighbourhood, you remember me at South Hill?"

"Edwards!" cried Harley, "O, heavens! let me clasp those knees on which
I have sat so often. Edwards! I shall never forget that fireside, round
which I have been so happy! But where have you been? Where is Jack?
Where is your daughter?"

"'Tis a long tale," replied Edwards, "but I will try to tell it you as
we walk."

Edwards had been a tenant farmer where his father, grandfather, and
great-grandfather had lived before him. The rapacity of a land steward,
heavy agricultural losses, and finally the arrival of a press-gang had
reduced him to misery. By paying a certain sum of money he had been
accepted by the press-gang instead of his son, and now old Edwards was
returning home invalided from the army.

When they had arrived within a little way of the village they journeyed
to, Harley stopped short and looked steadfastly on the mouldering walls
of a ruined house that stood by the roadside.

"What do I see?" he cried. "Silent, unroofed, and desolate! That was the
very school where I was boarded when you were at South Hill; 'tis but a
twelve-month since I saw it standing and its benches filled with
cherubs. That opposite side of the road was the green on which they
sported; see, it is now ploughed up!"

Just then a woman passed them on the road, who, in reply to Harley, told
them the squire had pulled the school-house down because it stood in the
way of his prospects.

"If you want anything with the school-mistress, sir," said the woman. "I
can show you the way to her house."

They followed her to the door of a snug habitation, where sat an elderly
woman with a boy and a girl before her, each of whom held a supper of
bread and milk in their hands.

"They are poor orphans," the school-mistress said, when Harley addressed
her, "put under my care by the parish, and more promising children I
never saw. Their father, sir, was a farmer here in the neighbourhood,
and a sober, industrious man he was; but nobody can help misfortunes.
What with bad crops and bad debts, his affairs went to wreck, and both
he and his wife died of broken hearts. And a sweet couple they were,
sir. There was not a properer man to look on in the county than John
Edwards, and so, indeed, were all the Edwardses of South Hill."

"Edwards! South Hill!" said the old soldier, in a languid voice, and
fell back in the arms of the astonished Harley.

He soon recovered, and folding his orphan grandchildren in his arms,
cried, "My poor Jack, art thou gone--"

"My dear old man," said Harley, "Providence has sent you to relieve
them. It will bless me if I can be the means of assisting you."

"Yes, indeed, sir," answered the boy. "Father, when he was a-dying, bade
God bless us, and prayed that if grandfather lived he might send him to
support us. I have told sister," said he, "that she should not take it
so to heart. She can knit already, and I shall soon be able to dig. We
shall not starve, sister, indeed we shall not, nor shall grandfather
neither."

The little girl cried afresh. Harley kissed off her tears, and wept
between every kiss.


_V.--The Man of Feeling is Jealous_


Shortly after Harley's return home his servant Peter came into his room
one morning with a piece of news on his tongue.

"The morning is main cold, sir," began Peter.

"Is it?" said Harley.

"Yes, sir. I have been as far as Tom Dowson's to fetch some barberries.
There was a rare junketting at Tom's last night among Sir Harry Benson's
servants. And I hear as how Sir Harry is going to be married to Miss
Walton. Tom's wife told it me, and, to be sure, the servants told her;
but, of course, it mayn't be true, for all that."

"Have done with your idle information," said Harley. "Is my aunt come
down into the parlour to breakfast?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell her I'll be with her immediately."

His aunt, too, had been informed of the intended match between Sir Harry
Benson and Miss Walton, Harley learnt.

"I have been thinking," said she, "that they are distant relations, for
the great-grandfather of this Sir Harry, who was knight of the shire in
the reign of Charles I., married a daughter of the Walton family."

Harley answered drily that it might be so, but that he never troubled
himself about those matters.

"Indeed," said she, "you are to blame, nephew, for not knowing a little
more of them; but nowadays it is money, not birth, that makes people
respected--the more shame for the times."

Left alone, Harley went out and sat down on a little seat in the garden.

"Miss Walton married!" said he. "But what is that to me? May she be
happy! Her virtues deserve it. I had romantic dreams. They are fled."

That night the curate dined with him, though his visits, indeed, were
more properly to the aunt than the nephew. He had hardly said grace
after dinner when he said he was very well informed that Sir Harry
Benson was just going to be married to Miss Walton. Harley spilt the
wine he was carrying to his mouth; he had time, however, to recollect
himself before the curate had finished the particulars of his
intelligence, and, summing up all the heroism he was master of, filled a
bumper, and drank to Miss Walton.

"With all my heart," said the curate; "the bride that is to be!" Harley
would have said "bride," too, but it stuck in his throat, and his
confusion was manifest.


_VI.--He Sees Miss Walton and is Happy_


Miss Walton was not married to Sir Harry Benson, but Harley made no
declaration of his own passion after that of the other had been
unsuccessful. The state of his health appears to have been such as to
forbid any thoughts of that kind. He had been seized with a very
dangerous fever caught by attending old Edwards in one of an infectious
kind. From this he had recovered but imperfectly, and though he had no
formed complaint, his health was manifestly on the decline.

It appears that some friend had at length pointed out to his aunt a
cause from which this decline of health might be supposed to proceed, to
wit, his hopeless love for Miss Walton--for, according to the
conceptions of the world, the love of a man of Harley's modest fortune
for the heiress of £4,000 a year is indeed desperate.

Be that as it may, I was sitting with him one morning when the door
opened and his aunt appeared, leading in Miss Walton. I could observe a
transient glow upon his face as he rose from his seat. She begged him to
resume his seat, and placed herself on the sofa beside him. I took my
leave, and his aunt accompanied me to the door. Harley was left with
Miss Walton alone. She inquired anxiously about his health.

"I believe," said he, "from the accounts which my physicians unwillingly
give me, that they have no great hopes of my recovery."

She started as he spoke, and then endeavoured to flatter him into a
belief that his apprehensions were groundless.

"I do not wish to be deceived," said he. "To meet death as becomes a man
is a privilege bestowed on few. I would endeavour to make it mine. Nor
do I think that I can ever be better prepared for it than now." He
paused some moments. "I am in such a state as calls for sincerity. Let
that also excuse it. It is perhaps the last time we shall ever meet." He
paused again. "Let it not offend you to know your power over one so
unworthy. To love Miss Walton could not be a crime; if to declare it is
one, the expiation will be made."

Her tears were now flowing without control.

"Let me entreat you," said she, "to have better hopes. Let not life be
so indifferent to you, if my wishes can put any value on it. I know your
worth--I have known it long. I have esteemed it. What would you have me
say? I have loved it as it deserved."

He seized her hand, a languid colour reddened her cheek; a smile
brightened faintly in his eye. As he gazed on her it grew dim, it fixed,
it closed. He sighed, and fell back on his seat. Miss Walton screamed at
the sight.

His aunt and the servants rushed into the room. They found them lying
motionless together.

His physician happened to call at that instant. Every art was tried to
recover them. With Miss Walton they succeeded, but Harley was gone for
ever.

       *       *       *       *       *




XAVIER DE MAISTRE


A Journey Round My Room


     Count Xavier de Maistre was born in October 1763 at Chambéry,
     in Savoy. When, in the war and the upheaval that followed on
     the French Revolution, his country was annexed to France, he
     emigrated to Russia, and being a landscape painter of fine
     talent, he managed to live on the pictures which he sold. He
     died at St. Petersburg on June 12, 1852. His famous "Journey
     Round My Room" ("Voyage autour de ma chambre") was written in
     1794 at Turin, where he was imprisoned for forty-two days over
     some affair of honour. The style of his work is clearly
     modelled on that of Sterne, but the ideas, which he pours out
     with a delightful interplay of wit and fancy, are marked with
     the stamp of a fine, original mind. The work is one of the
     most brilliant _tours de force_ in a literature remarkable for
     its lightness, grace, and charm. Being a born writer, de
     Maistre whiled away his time by producing a sparkling little
     masterpiece, which will be cherished long after the heavy,
     philosophical works written by his elder brother, Joseph de
     Maistre, have mouldered into the dust. In the lifetime of the
     two brothers, Joseph was regarded throughout Europe as a man
     of high genius, while Xavier was looked down on as a trifler.


_I.--My Great Discovery_


How glorious it is to open a new career, and to appear suddenly in the
world of science with a book of discoveries in one's hand like an
unexpected comet sparkling in space! Here is the book, gentleman. I have
undertaken and carried out a journey of forty-two days in my room. The
interesting observations I have made, and the continual pleasure I have
felt during this long expedition, excited in me the wish to publish it;
the certitude of the usefulness of my work decided me. My heart is
filled with an inexpressible satisfaction when I think of the infinite
number of unhappy persons to whom I am now able to offer an assured
resource against the tediousness and vexations of life. The delight one
finds in travelling in one's own room is a pure joy, exempt from the
unquiet jealousies of men and independent of ill-fortune.

In the immense family of men that swarm on the surface of the earth,
there is not one--no, not one (I am speaking, of course, of those who
have a room to live in)--who can, after having read this book, refuse
his approbation to the new way of travelling which I have invented. It
costs nothing, that is the great thing! Thus it is certain of being
adopted by very rich people! Thousands of persons who have never thought
of travelling will now resolve to follow my example.

Come, then, let us go forth! Follow me, all ye hermits who through some
mortification in love, some negligence in friendship, have withdrawn
into your rooms far from the pettiness and infidelity of mankind! But
quit your dismal thoughts, I pray you. Every minute you lose some
pleasure without gaining any wisdom in place of it. Deign to accompany
me on my travels. We shall go by easy stages, laughing all along the
road at every tourist who has gone to Rome or Paris. No obstacle shall
stop us, and, surrendering ourselves to our imagination, we will follow
it wherever it may lead us.

But persons are so curious. I am sure you would like to know why my
journey round my room lasted forty-two days instead of forty-three, or
some other space of time. But how can I tell you when I do not know
myself? All I can say is that if you find my work too long, it was not
my fault. In spite of the vanity natural in a traveller, I should have
been very glad if it had only run a single chapter. The fact is, that
though I was allowed in my room all the pleasures and comfort possible,
I was not permitted to leave it when I wished.

Is there anything more natural and just than to fight to the death with
a man who has inadvertently trodden on your foot, or let fall some sharp
words in a moment of vexation of which your imprudence was the cause?
Nothing, you will admit, is more logical; and yet there are some people
who disapprove of this admirable custom.

But, what is still more natural and logical, the very people who
disapprove it and regard it as a grave crime treat with greater rigour
any man who refuses to commit it. Many an unhappy fellow has lost his
reputation and position through conforming with their views, so that if
you have the misfortune to be engaged in what is called "an affair of
honour," it is best to toss up to see if you should follow the law or
the custom; and as the law and the custom in regard to duelling are
contradictory, the magistrates would also do well to frame their
sentence on the throw of the dice. Probably, it was in this way that
they determined that my journey should last exactly forty-two days.


_II.--My Armchair and my Bed_


My chamber forms a square, round which I can take thirty-six steps, if I
keep very close to the wall. But I seldom travel in a straight line. I
dislike persons who are such masters of their feet and of their ideas
that they can say: "To-day I shall make three calls, I shall write four
letters, I shall finish this work that I have begun." So rare are the
pleasures scattered along our difficult path in life, that we must be
mad not to turn out of our way and gather anything of joy which is
within our reach.

To my mind, there is nothing more attractive than to follow the trail of
one's ideas, like a hunter tracking down game, without holding to any
road. I like to zigzag about. I set out from my table to the picture in
the corner. From there I journey obliquely towards the door; but if I
come upon my armchair I stand on no ceremonies, but settle myself in it
at once. 'Tis an excellent piece of furniture, an armchair, and
especially useful to a meditative man. In long winter evenings it is
sometimes delightful and always wise to stretch oneself in it easily,
far from the din of the numerous assemblies.

After my armchair, in walking towards the north I discover my bed, which
is placed at the end of my room, and there forms a most agreeable
perspective. So happily is it arranged that the earliest rays of
sunlight come and play on the curtains. I can see them, on fine summer
mornings, advancing along the white wall with the rising sun; some elms,
growing before my window, divide them in a thousand ways, and make them
dance on my bed, which, by their reflection, spread all round the room
the tint of its own charming white and rose pattern. I hear the
twittering of the swallows that nest in the roof, and of other birds in
the elms; a stream of charming thoughts flows into my mind, and in the
whole world nobody has an awakening as pleasant and as peaceful as mine.


_III.--The Beast_


Only metaphysicians must read this chapter. It throws a great light on
the nature of man. I cannot explain how and why I burnt my fingers at
the first steps I made in setting out on my journey around my room,
until I expose my system of the soul and the beast. In the course of
diverse observations I have found out that man is composed of a soul and
a beast.

It is often said that man is made up of a soul and a body, and this body
is accused of doing all sorts of wrong things. In my opinion, there is
no ground for such accusations, for the body is as incapable of feeling
as it is of thinking. The beast is the creature on whom the blame should
be laid. It is a sensible being, perfectly distinct from the soul, a
veritable individual, with its separate existence, tastes, inclinations,
and will; it is superior to other animals only because it has been
better brought up, and endowed with finer organs. The great art of a man
of genius consists in knowing how to train his beast so well that it can
run alone, while the soul, delivered from its painful company, rises up
into the heavens. I must make this clear by an example.

One day last summer I was walking along on my way to the court. I had
been painting all the morning, and my soul, delighted with her
meditation on painting, left to the beast the care of transporting me to
the king's palace.

"What a sublime art painting is!" thought my soul. "Happy is the man who
has been touched by the spectacle of nature, who is not compelled to
paint pictures for a living, and still less just to pass the time away;
but who, struck by the majesty of a fine physiognomy and by the
admirable play of light that blends in a thousand tints on a human face,
tries to approach in his works the sublime effects of nature!"

While my soul was making these reflections, the beast was running its
own way. Instead of going to court, as it had been ordered to, it
swerved so much to the left that at the moment when my soul caught it
up, it was at the door of Mme. de Hautcastel's house, half a mile from
the palace.

       *       *       *       *       *

If it is useful and pleasant to have a soul so disengaged from the
material world that one can let her travel all alone when one wishes to,
this faculty is not without its inconveniences. It was through it, for
instance, that I burnt my fingers. I usually leave to my beast the duty
of preparing my breakfast. It toasts my bread and cuts it in slices.
Above all, it makes coffee beautifully, and it drinks it very often
without my soul taking part in the matter, except when she amuses
herself with watching the beast at work. This, however, is rare, and a
very difficult thing to do.

It is easy, during some mechanical act, to think of something else; but
it is extremely difficult to study oneself in action, so to speak; or,
to explain myself according to my own system, to employ one's soul in
examining the conduct of one's beast, to see it work without taking any
part. This is really the most astonishing metaphysical feat that man can
execute.

I had laid my tongs on the charcoal to toast my bread, and some time
after, while my soul was on her travels, a flaming stump rolled on the
grate; my poor beast went to take up the tongs, and I burnt my fingers.


_IV.--A Great Picture_


The first stage of my journey round my room is accomplished. While my
soul has been explaining my new system of metaphysic, I have been
sitting in my armchair in my favourite attitude, with the two front feet
raised a couple of inches off the floor. By swaying my body to and fro,
I have insensibly gained ground, and I find myself with a start close to
the wall. This is the way in which I travel when I am not in a hurry.

My chamber is hung with prints and paintings which embellish it in an
admirable manner. I should like the reader to examine them one after the
other, and to entertain himself during the long journey that we must
make in order to arrive at my desk. Look, here is a portrait of Raphael.
Beside it is a likeness of the adorable lady whom he loved.

But I have something still finer than these, and I always reserve it for
the last. I find that both connoisseurs and ignoramuses, both women of
the world and little children, yes, and even animals, are pleased and
astonished by the way in which this sublime work renders every effect in
nature. What picture can I present to you, gentlemen; what scene can I
put beneath your lovely eyes, ladies, more certain of winning your
favour than the faithful image of yourselves? The work of which I speak
is a looking-glass, and nobody up to the present has taken it into his
head to criticise it; it is, for all those who study it, a perfect
picture in which there is nothing to blame. It is thus the gem of my
collection.

You see this withered rose? It is a flower of the Turin carnival of last
year. I gathered it myself at Valentin's, and in the evening, an hour
before the ball, I went full of hope and joy to present it to Mme. de
Hautcastel. She took it, and placed it on her dressing-table without
looking at it, and without looking at me. But how could she take any
notice of me? Standing in an ectasy before a great mirror, she was
putting the last touches to her finery. So totally was she absorbed in
the ribbons, the gauzes, the ornaments heaped up before her, that I
could not obtain a glance, a sign. I finished my losing patience, and
being unable to resist the feeling of anger that swept over me, I took
up the rose and walked out without taking leave of my sweetheart.

"Are you going?" she said, turning round to see her figure in profile.

I did not answer, but I listened at the door to learn if my brusque
departure produced any effect.

"Do you not see," exclaimed Mme. de Hautcastel to her maid, after a
short silence, "that this pelisse is much too full at the bottom? Get
some pins and make a tuck in it."

That is how I come to have a withered rose on my desk. I shall make no
reflections on the affair. I shall not even draw any conclusions from it
concerning the force and duration of a woman's love.

My forty-two days are coming to an end, and an equal space of time would
not suffice to describe the rich country in which I am now travelling,
for I have at last reached my bookshelf. It contains nothing but
novels--yes, I shall be candid--nothing but novels and a few choice
poets. As though I had not enough troubles of my own, I willingly share
in those of a thousand imaginary persons, and I feel them as keenly as
if they were mine. What tears have I shed over the unhappiness of
Clarissa!

But if I thus seek for feigned afflictions, I find, in compensation, in
this imaginary world, the virtue, the goodness, the disinterestedness
which I have been unable to discover together in the real world in which
I exist. It is there that I find the wife that I desire, without temper,
without lightness, without subterfuge; I say nothing about beauty--you
can depend on my imagination for that! Then, closing the book which no
longer answers to my ideas, I take her by the hand, and we wander
together through a land a thousand times more delicious than that of
Eden. What painter can depict the scene of enchantment in which I have
placed the divinity of my heart? But when I am tired of love-making I
take up some poet, and set out again for another world.


_V.--In Prison Again_


O charming land of imagination which has been given to men to console
them for the realities of life, it is time for me to leave thee! This is
the day when certain persons pretend to give me back my freedom, as
though they had deprived me of it! As though it were in their power to
take it away from me for a single instant, and to hinder me from
scouring as I please the vast space always open before me! They have
prevented me from going out into a single town--Turin, a mere point on
the earth--but they have left to me the entire universe; immensity and
eternity have been at my service.

To-day, then, I am free, or rather I am going to be put back into irons.
The yoke of business is again going to weigh me down; I shall not be
able to take a step which is not measured by custom or duty. I shall be
fortunate if some capricious goddess does not make me forget one and the
other, and if I escape from this new and dangerous captivity.

Oh, why did they not let me complete my journey! Was it really to punish
me that they confined me in my room? In this country of delight which
contains all the good things, all the riches of the world? They might as
well have tried to chastise a mouse by shutting him up in a granary.

Yet never have I perceived more clearly that I have a double nature. All
the time that I am regretting my pleasures of the imagination, I feel
myself consoled by force. A secret power draws me away. It tells me that
I have need of the fresh air and the open sky, and that solitude
resembles death. So here am I dressed and ready. My door opens; I am
rambling under the spacious porticoes of the street of Po; a thousand
charming phantoms dance before my eyes. Yes, this is her mansion, this
is the door; I tremble with anticipation.

       *       *       *       *       *




SIR THOMAS MALORY


Morte d'Arthur


     Little is known of Sir Thomas Malory, who, according to
     Caxton, "did take out of certain French books a copy of the
     noble histories of King Arthur and reduced it to English." We
     learn from the text that "this book was finished in the ninth
     year of the reign of King Edward the Fourth, by Sir Thomas
     Malory, Knight." That would be in the year 1469. Malory is
     said to have been a Welshman. The origin of the Arthurian
     romance was probably Welsh. Its first literary form was in
     Geoffrey of Monmouth's prose, in 1147. Translated into French
     verse, and brightened in the process, these legends appear to
     have come back to us, and to have received notable additions
     from Walter Map (1137-1209), another Welshman. A second time
     they were worked on and embellished by the French
     romanticists, and from these later versions Malory appears to
     have collated the materials for his immortal translation. The
     story of Arthur and Launcelot is the thread of interest
     followed in this epitome.


_I.--The Coming of Arthur_


It befell in the days of the noble Utherpendragon, when he was King of
England, there was a mighty and noble duke in Cornwall, named the Duke
of Tintagil, that held long war against him. And the duke's wife was
called a right fair lady, and a passing wise, and Igraine was her name.
And the duke, issuing out of the castle at a postern to distress the
king's host, was slain. Then all the barons, by one assent, prayed the
king of accord between the Lady Igraine and himself. And the king gave
them leave, for fain would he have accorded with her; and they were
married in a morning with great mirth and joy.

When the Queen Igraine grew daily nearer the time when the child Arthur
should be born, Merlin, by whose counsel the king had taken her to wife,
came to the king and said: "Sir, you must provide for the nourishing of
your child. I know a lord of yours that is a passing true man, and
faithful, and he shall have the nourishing of your child. His name is
Sir Ector, and he is a lord of fair livelihood." "As thou wilt," said
the king, "be it." So the child was delivered unto Merlin, and he bare
it forth unto Sir Ector, and made a holy man to christen him, and named
him Arthur.

But, within two years, King Uther fell sick of a great malady, and
therewith yielded up the ghost, and was interred as belonged unto a
king; wherefore Igraine the queen made great sorrow, and all the barons.

Then stood the realm in great jeopardy a long while, for many weened to
have been king. And Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and
counselled him to send for all the lords of the realm, and all the
gentlemen of arms, to London before Christmas, upon pain of cursing,
that Jesus, of His great mercy, should show some miracle who should be
rightwise king. So in the greatest church of London there was seen
against the high altar a great stone and in the midst thereof there was
an anvil of steel, and therein stuck a fair sword, naked by the point,
and letters of gold were written about the sword that said, "Whoso
pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of
England."

And many essayed, but none might stir the sword.

And on New Year's Day the barons made a joust, and Sir Ector rode to the
jousts; and with him rode Sir Kaye, his son, and young Arthur, that was
his nourished brother.

And Sir Kaye, who was made knight at Allhallowmas afore, had left his
sword at his father's lodging, and so prayed young Arthur to ride for
it. Then Arthur said to himself, "I will ride to the churchyard and take
the sword that sticketh in the stone for my brother Kaye." And so,
lightly and fiercely, he pulled it out of the stone, and took horse and
delivered to Sir Kaye the sword. "How got you this sword?" said Sir
Ector to Arthur. "Sir, I will tell you," said Arthur; "I pulled it out
of the stone without any pain." "Now," said Sir Ector, "I understand you
must be king of this land." "Wherefore I?" said Arthur. "And for what
cause?" "Sir," said Sir Ector, "for God will have it so." And
therewithal Sir Ector kneeled down to the earth, and Sir Kaye also.

Then Sir Ector told him all how he had betaken him to nourish him; and
Arthur made great moan when he understood that Sir Ector was not his
father.

And at the Feast of Pentecost all manner of men essayed to pull out the
sword, and none might prevail but Arthur, who pulled it out before all
the lords and commons. And the commons cried, "We will have Arthur unto
our king." And so anon was the coronation made.

And Merlin said to King Arthur, "Fight not with the sword that you had
by miracle till you see that you go to the worst, then draw it out and
do your best." And the sword, Excalibur, was so bright that it gave
light like thirty torches.


_II.--The Marriage of Arthur_


In the beginning of King Arthur, after that he was chosen king by
adventure and by grace, for the most part the barons knew not that he
was Utherpendragon's son but as Merlin made it openly known. And many
kings and lords made great war against him for that cause, but King
Arthur full well overcame them all; for the most part of the days of his
life he was much ruled by the counsel of Merlin. So it befell on a time
that he said unto Merlin, "My barons will let me have no rest, but needs
they will have that I take a wife, and I will none take but by thy
advice."

"It is well done," said Merlin, "for a man of your bounty and nobleness
should not be without a wife. Now, is there any fair lady that ye love
better than another?"

"Yea," said Arthur; "I love Guinever, the king's daughter, of the land
of Cameliard. This damsel is the gentlest and fairest lady I ever could
find."

"Sir," said Merlin, "she is one of the fairest that live, and as a man's
heart is set he will be loth to return."

But Merlin warned the king privily that Guinever was not wholesome for
him to take to wife, for he warned him that Launcelot should love her,
and she him again. And Merlin went forth to King Leodegraunce, of
Cameliard, and told him of the desire of the king that he would have to
his wife Guinever, his daughter. "That is to me," said King
Leodegraunce, "the best tidings that ever I heard; and I shall send him
a gift that shall please him, for I shall give him the Table Round, the
which Utherpendragon gave me; and when it is full complete there is a
place for a hundred and fifty knights; and a hundred good knights I have
myself, but I lack fifty, for so many have been slain in my days."

And so King Leodegraunce delivered his daughter, Guinever, to Merlin,
and the Table Round, with the hundred knights, and they rode freshly and
with great royalty, what by water and what by land.

And when Arthur heard of the coming of Guinever and the hundred knights
of the Round Table he made great joy; and in all haste did ordain for
the marriage and coronation in the most honourable wise that could be
devised. And Merlin found twenty-eight good knights of prowess and
worship, but no more could he find. And the Archbishop of Canterbury was
sent for, and blessed the seats of the Round Table with great devotion.

Then was the high feast made ready, and the king was wedded at Camelot
unto Dame Guinever, in the Church of St. Steven's, with great solemnity.


_III.--Sir Launcelot and the King_


And here I leave off this tale, and overskip great books of Merlin, and
Morgan le Fay, and Sir Balin le Savage, and Sir Launcelot du Lake, and
Sir Galahad, and the Book of the Holy Grail, and the Book of Elaine, and
come to the tale of Sir Launcelot, and the breaking up of the Round
Table.

In the merry month of May, when every heart flourisheth and rejoiceth,
it happened there befel a great misfortune, the which stinted not till
the flower of the chivalry of all the world was destroyed and slain.

And all was along of two unhappy knights named Sir Agravaine and Sir
Mordred, that were brethren unto Sir Gawaine. For these two knights had
ever privy hate unto the queen, and unto Sir Launcelot. And Sir
Agravaine said openly, and not in counsel, "I marvel that we all be not
ashamed to see and know how Sir Launcelot cometh daily and nightly to
the queen, and it is shameful that we suffer so noble a king to be
ashamed." Then spake Sir Gawaine, "I pray you have no such matter any
way before me, for I will not be of your counsel." And so said his
brothers, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth. "Then will I," said Sir Mordred.
And with these words they came to King Arthur, and told him they could
suffer it no longer, but must tell him, and prove to him that Sir
Launcelot was a traitor to his person.

"I would be loth to begin such a thing," said King Arthur, "for I tell
you Sir Launcelot is the best knight among you all." For Sir Launcelot
had done much for him and for his queen many times, and King Arthur
loved him passing well.

Then Sir Agravaine advised that the king go hunting, and send word that
he should be out all that night, and he and Sir Mordred, with twelve
knights of the Round Table should watch the queen. So on the morrow King
Arthur rode out hunting.

And Sir Launcelot told Sir Bors that night he would speak with the
queen. "You shall not go this night by my counsel," said Sir Bors.

"Fair nephew," said Sir Launcelot, "I marvel me much why ye say this,
sithence the queen hath sent for me." And he departed, and when he had
passed to the queen's chamber, Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred, with
twelve knights, cried aloud without, "Traitor knight, now art thou
taken!"

But Sir Launcelot after he had armed himself, set the chamber door wide
open, and mightily and knightly strode among them, and slew Sir
Agravaine and twelve of his fellows, and wounded Sir Mordred, who fled
with all his might, and came straight to King Arthur, wounded and
beaten, and all be-bled.

"Alas!" said the king, "now am I sure the noble fellowship of the Round
Table is broken for ever, for with Launcelot will hold many a noble
knight."

And the queen was adjudged to death by fire, for there was none other
remedy but death for treason in those days. Then was Queen Guinever led
forth without Carlisle, and despoiled unto her smock, and her ghostly
father was brought to her to shrive her of her misdeeds; and there was
weeping and wailing and wringing of hands.

But anon there was spurring and plucking up of horses, for Sir Launcelot
and many a noble knight rode up to the fire, and none might withstand
him. And a kirtle and gown were cast upon the queen, and Sir Launcelot
rode his way with her to Joyous Gard, and kept her as a noble knight
should.

Then came King Arthur and Sir Gawaine, whose brothers, Sir Gaheris and
Sir Gareth, had been slain by Sir Launcelot unawares, and laid a siege
to Joyous Gard. And Launcelot had no heart to fight against his lord,
King Arthur; and Arthur would have taken his queen again, and would have
accorded with Sir Launcelot, but Sir Gawaine would not suffer him. Then
the Pope called unto him a noble clerk, the Bishop of Rochester, and
gave him bulls, under lead, unto King Arthur, charging him that he take
his queen, Dame Guinever, to him again, and accord with Sir Launcelot.
And as for the queen, she assented. And the bishop had of the king
assurance that Sir Launcelot should come and go safe. So Sir Launcelot
delivered the queen to the king, who assented that Sir Launcelot should
not abide in the land past fifteen days.

Then Sir Launcelot sighed, and said these words, "Truly me repenteth
that ever I came into this realm, that I should be thus shamefully
banished, undeserved, and causeless." And unto Queen Guinever he said,
"Madam, now I must depart from you and this noble fellowship for ever;
and since it is so, I beseech you pray for me, and send me word if ye be
noised with any false tongues." And therewith Launcelot kissed the
queen, and said openly, "Now let me see what he be that dare say the
queen is not true to King Arthur--let who will speak, and he dare!" And
he took his leave and departed, and all the people wept.


_IV.--The Passing of Arthur_


Now, to say the truth, Sir Launcelot and his nephews were lords of the
realm of France, and King Arthur and Sir Gawaine made a great host ready
and shipped at Cardiff, and made great destruction and waste on his
lands. And Arthur left the governance of all England to Sir Mordred. And
Sir Mordred caused letters to be made that specified that King Arthur
was slain in battle with Sir Launcelot; wherefore Sir Mordred made a
parliament, and they chose him king, and he was crowned at Canterbury.
But Queen Guinever came to London, and stuffed it with victuals, and
garnished it with men, and kept it.

Then King Arthur raised the siege on Sir Launcelot, and came homeward
with a great host to be avenged on Sir Mordred. And Sir Mordred drew
towards Dover to meet him, and most of England held with Sir Mordred,
the people were so new-fangled.

Then was there launching of great boats and small, and all were full of
noble men of arms, and there was much slaughter of gentle knights; but
King Arthur was so courageous none might let him to land; and his
knights fiercely followed him, and put back Sir Mordred, and he fled.

But Sir Gawaine was laid low with a blow smitten on an old wound given
him by Sir Launcelot. Then Sir Gawaine, after he had been shriven, wrote
with his own hand to Sir Launcelot, flower of all noble knights: "I
beseech thee, Sir Launcelot, return again to this realm, and see my
tomb, and pray some prayer more or less for my soul. Make no tarrying
but come with thy noble knights and rescue that noble king that made
thee knight, for he is straitly bestood with a false traitor." And so
Sir Gawaine betook his soul into the hands of our Lord God.

And many a knight drew unto Sir Mordred and many unto King Arthur, and
never was there seen a dolefuller battle in a Christian land. And they
fought till it was nigh night, and there were a hundred thousand laid
dead upon the down.

"Alas! that ever I should see this doleful day," said King Arthur, "for
now I come unto mine end. But would to God that I wist where that
traitor Sir Mordred is, which hath caused all this mischief."

Then was King Arthur aware where Sir Mordred leaned upon his sword, and
there King Arthur smote Sir Mordred throughout the body more than a
fathom, and Sir Mordred smote King Arthur with his sword held in both
hands on the side of the head, that the sword pierced the helmet and the
brain-pan. And Sir Mordred fell dead; and the noble King Arthur fell in
a swoon, and Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere laid him in a little chapel not
far from the sea-side.

And when he came to himself again, he said unto Sir Bedivere, "Take thou
Excalibur, my good sword, and throw it into that water." And when Sir
Bedivere (at the third essay) threw the sword into the water, as far as
he might, there came an arm and a hand above the water, and met and
caught it, and so shook and brandished it thrice; and then the hand
vanished away with the sword in the water.

Then Sir Bedivere bore King Arthur to the water's edge, and fast by the
bank hovered a little barge, and there received him three queens with
great mourning. And Arthur said, "I will unto the vale of Avillon for to
heal me of my grievous wound, and if thou never hear more of me, pray
for my soul." And evermore the ladies wept.

And in the morning Sir Bedivere was aware between two hills of a chapel
and a hermitage; and he saw there a hermit fast by a tomb newly graven.
And the hermit said, "My son, here came ladies which brought this corpse
and prayed me to bury him."

"Alas," said Sir Bedivere, "that was my lord, King Arthur."

And when Queen Guinever understood that her lord, King Arthur, was
slain, she stole away and went to Almesbury, and made herself a nun, and
was abbess and ruler as reason would.

And Sir Launcelot passed over into England, and prayed full heartily at
the tomb of Sir Gawaine, and then rode alone to find Queen Guinever. And
when Sir Launcelot was brought unto her, she said: "Through this knight
and me all the wars were wrought, and through our love is my noble lord
slain; therefore, Sir Launcelot, I require thee that thou never look me
more in the visage."

And Sir Launcelot said: "The same destiny ye have taken you unto I will
take me unto." And he besought the bishop that he might be his brother;
then he put a habit on Sir Launcelot, and there he served God day and
night, with prayers and fastings.

And when Queen Guinever died Sir Launcelot buried her beside her lord,
King Arthur. Then mourned he continually until he was dead, so within
six weeks after they found him stark dead, and he lay as he had smiled.
Then there was weeping and dolor out of measure. And they buried Sir
Launcelot with great devotion.

       *       *       *       *       *




ANNE MANNING


The Household of Sir Thomas More


     Anne Manning, one of the most active women novelists of Queen
     Victoria's reign, was born in London on February 17, 1807. Her
     first book, "A Sister's Gift: Conversations on Sacred
     Subjects," was written in the form of lessons for her brothers
     and sisters, and published at her own expense in 1826. It was
     followed in 1831 by "Stories from the History of Italy," and
     in 1838 her first work of fiction, "Village Belles," made its
     appearance. In their day Miss Manning's novels had a great
     vogue, only equalled by her amazing output. Altogether some
     fifty-one stories appeared under her name, of which the best
     remembered is "The Household of Sir Thomas More," an imaginary
     diary written by More's daughter, Margaret. After appearing in
     "Sharpe's Magazine," it was published in book form in 1860. It
     is wonderfully vivid, and is written with due regard to
     historical facts. It is interesting to compare it with the
     "Life of Sir Thomas More," written by William Roper, Margaret
     More's husband, with which it is now frequently reprinted.
     Miss Manning died on September 14, 1879.


_I.--Of the Writing of My Libellus_


                                                   _Chelsea, June_ 18.

On asking Mr. Gunnel to what use I should put this fayr _Libellus_, he
did suggest my making it a kinde of family register, wherein to note the
more important of our domestic passages, whether of joy or griefe--my
father's journies and absences--the visits of learned men, theire
notable sayings, etc. "You are ready at the pen, Mistress Margaret," he
was pleased to say, "and I woulde humblie advise your journaling in the
same fearless manner in the which you framed that letter which so well
pleased the Bishop of Exeter that he sent you a Portugal piece. 'Twill
be well to write it in English, which 'tis expedient for you not
altogether to negleckt, even for the more honourable Latin."

Methinks I am close upon womanhood. My master Gonellus doth now "humblie
advise" her he hath so often chid. 'Tis well to make trial of his
"humble" advice.

...As I traced the last word methoughte I heard the well-known tones of
Erasmus, his pleasant voyce, and indeede here is the deare little man
coming up from the riverside with my father, who, because of the heat,
had given his cloak to a tall stripling behind him to bear, I flew
upstairs, to advertise mother, and we found 'em alreadie in the hall.

So soon as I had obtayned their blessings, the tall lad stept forth, and
who should he be but William Roper, returned from my father's errand
overseas! His manners are worsened, for he twice made to kiss me and
drew back. I could have boxed his ears, 'speciallie as father, laughing,
cried, "The third time's lucky!"

After supper, we took deare Erasmus entirely over the house, in a kind
of family procession. In our own deare Academia, with its glimpse of the
cleare-shining Thames, Erasmus noted and admired our cut flowers, and
glanced, too, at the books on our desks--Bessy's being Livy; Daisy's,
Sallust; and mine, St. Augustine, with father's marks where I was to
read, and where desist. He tolde Erasmus, laying hand fondlie on my
head, "Here is one who knows what is implied in the word 'trust.'" Dear
father, well I may! Thence we visitted the chapel, and gallery, and all
the dumb kinde. Erasmus doubted whether Duns Scotus and the Venerable
Bede had been complimented in being made name-fathers to a couple of
owls; but he said Argus and Juno were good cognomens for peacocks.

Anon, we rest and talk in the pavilion. Sayth Erasmus to my father, "I
marvel you have never entered into the king's service in some publick
capacitie."

Father smiled. "I am better and happier as I am. To put myself forward
would be like printing a book at request of friends, that the publick
may be charmed with what, in fact, it values at a doit. When the
cardinall offered me a pension, as retaining fee to the king, I told him
I did not care to be a mathematical point, to have position without
magnitude."

"We shall see you at court yet," says Erasmus.

Sayth father, "With a fool's cap and bells!"

                                                            _Tuesday_.

This morn I surprised father and Erasmus in the pavillion. Erasmus sayd,
the revival of learning seemed appoynted by Heaven for some greate
purpose.

In the evening, Will and Rupert, spruce enow with nosegays and ribbons,
rowed us up to Putney. We had a brave ramble through Fulham meadows,
father discoursing of the virtues of plants, and how many a poor knave's
pottage would be improved if he were skilled in the properties of
burdock and old man's pepper.

                                                            _June 20_.

Grievous work overnighte with the churning. Gillian sayd that Gammer
Gurney, dissatisfyde last Friday with her dole, had bewitched the
creame. Mother insisted on Bess and me, Daisy and Mercy Giggs, churning
until the butter came. We sang "Chevy Chase" from end to end, and then
chaunted the 119th Psalme; and by the time we had attained to _Lucerna
Pedibus_, I heard the buttermilk separating and splashing in righte
earnest. 'Twas neare midnighte, however. Gillian thinketh our Latin
brake the spell.

                                                            _June 21_.

Erasmus to Richmond with _Polus_ (for soe he Latinises Reginald Pole),
and some other of his friends.

I walked with William _juxta fluvium_, and he talked not badlie of his
travels. There is really more in him than one would think.

To-day I gave this book to Mr. Gunnel in mistake for my Latin exercise!
Was ever anything so downright disagreeable?

                                                            _June 24_.

Yesternighte, St. John's Eve, we went into town to see the mustering of
the watch. The streets were like unto a continuation of fayr bowers or
arbours, which being lit up, looked like an enchanted land. To the sound
of trumpets, came marching up Cheapside two thousand of the watch and
seven hundred cressett bearers, and the Lord Mayor and sheriffs, with
morris dancers, waits, giants, and pageants, very fine. The streets
uproarious on our way back to the barge, but the homeward passage under
the stars delicious.

                                                            _June 25_.

Poor Erasmus caughte colde on the water last nighte, and keeps house. He
spent the best part of the morning in our Academia, discussing the
pronunciation of Latin and Greek with Mr. Gunnel, and speaking of his
labours on his Greek and Latin Testament, which he prays may be a
blessing to all Christendom. He talked of a possible _Index Bibliorum_,
saying 'twas onlie the work of patience and Industrie. Methoughte, if
none else would undertake it, why not I?

                                                            _June 29_.

Dr. Linacre at dinner. At table discourse flowed soe thicke and faste
that I might aim in vain to chronicle it, and why should I, dwelling as
I doe at the fountayn head?

In the hay-field alle the evening. Swathed father in a hay-rope. Father
reclining on the hay with his head in my lap. Said he was dreaming "of a
far-off future day, when thou and I shall looke back on this hour, and
this hay-field, and my head on thy lap."

"Nay, but what a stupid dream, Mr. More," says mother. "If I dreamed at
all, it shoulde be of being Lord Chancellor at the leaste."

"Well, wife," sayd father, "I forgive thee for not saying at the most."

                                                             _July 2_.

Erasmus is gone. His last saying to father was, "They will have you at
court yet;" and father's answer, "When Plato's year comes round."

To me he gave a copy--how precious!--of his Greek Testament.

                                                            _July 11_.

A forayn mission hath been proposed to father and he did accept. Lengthe
of his stay uncertain, which caste a gloom on alle.


_II.--Father Goeth to the Court_


                                                       _May 27, 1523_.

'Tis so manie months agone since I made an entry in my _Libellus_, as
that my motto, _Nulla dies sine linea_, hath somewhat of sarcasm in it.
In father's prolonged absence I have toiled at my _Opus_ (the _Index
Bibliorum_), but 'twas not to purpose, and then came that payn in my
head. Father discovered my _Opus_, and with alle swete gentlenesse told
me firmly that there are some things a woman cannot, and some she had
better not do. Yet if I would persist, I shoulde have leisure and quiet
and the help of his books.

Hearing Mercy propound the conditions of an hospital for aged and sick
folk, father hath devised and given me the conduct of a house of refuge,
and oh, what pleasure have I derived from it! "Have I cured the payn in
thy head, miss?" said he. Then he gave me the key of the hospital,
saying, "'Tis yours now, my joy, by livery and seisin."

                                                           _August 6_.

I wish William would give me back my Testament.

                                                           _August 7_.

Yesterday, father, taking me unawares, asked, "Come, tell me, Meg, why
canst not affect Will Roper?"

I was a good while silent, at length made answer, "He is so unlike alle
I have been taught to esteem and admire by you."

"Have at you," he returned laughing, "I wist not I had been sharpening
weapons against myself."

Then did he plead Will's cause and bid me take him for what he is.

                                                          _August 30_.

Will is in sore doubte and distresse, and I fear it is my Testament that
hath unsettled him. I have bidden him fast, pray, and use such
discipline as our church recommends.

                                                        _September 2_.

I have it from Barbara through her brother, one of the men-servants,
that Mr. Roper hath of late lien on the ground and used a knotted cord.
I have made him an abstract from the Fathers for his soul's comfort.

                                                      _1524, October_.

The king took us by surprise this morning. Mother had scarce time to
slip on her scarlet gown and coif ere he was in the house. His grace was
mighty pleasant to all, and at going, saluted all round, which Bessy
took humourously, Daisy immoveablie, Mercy humblie, I distastefullie,
and mother delightedlie. She calls him a fine man; he is indeed big
enough, and like to become too big; with long slits of eyes that gaze
freelie on all. His eyebrows are supercilious, and his cheeks puffy. A
rolling, straddling gait and abrupt speech.

                                                _Tuesday, October 25_.

Will troubleth me noe longer with his lovefitt, nor with his religious
disquietations. Hard studdy of the law hath filled his head with other
matters, and made him infinitely more rationall and more agreeable. I
shall ne'er remind him.

T'other evening, as father and I were strolling down the lane, there
accosts us a poor, shabby fellow, who begged to be father's fool. Father
said he had a fancy to be prime fooler in his own establishment, but
liking the poor knave's wit, civilitie, and good sense, he agreed to
halve the businesse, he continuing the fooling, and Patteson--for that
is the simple good fellow's name--receiving the salary. Father
delighteth in sparring with Patteson far more than in jesting with the
king, whom he alwaies looks on as a lion that may, any minute, rend him.

                                                       _1525, July 2_.

Soe my fate is settled. Who knoweth at sunrise what will chance before
sunsett? No; the Greeks and Romans mighte speak of chance and fate, but
we must not. Ruth's hap was to light on the field of Boaz, but what she
thought casual, the Lord had contrived.

'Twas no use hanging back for ever and ever, soe now there's an end, and
I pray God to give Will and me a quiet life.

                                                   _1528, September_.

Father hath had some words with the cardinall touching the draught of
some foreign treaty. "By the Mass," exclaimed his grace, nettled, "thou
art the verist fool in all the council."

Father, smiling, rejoined, "God be thanked that the king, our master,
hath but one fool therein."

The cardinall's rage cannot rob father of the royal favour. Howbeit,
father says he has no cause to be proud thereof. "If my head," said he
to Will, "could win the king a castle in France, it shoulde not fail to
fly off."

...I was senseless enow to undervalue Will. Yes, I am a happy wife, a
happy mother. When my little Bill stroaked dear father's face just now,
and murmured "Pretty!" he burst out a-laughing, and cried, "You are like
the young Cyrus, who exclaimed, 'Oh, mother, how pretty is my
grandfather!'"

I often sitt for an hour or more, watching Hans Holbein at his brush. He
hath a rare gift of limning; but in our likeness, which he hath painted
for deare Erasmus, I think he has made us very ugly.


_III.--The Great Seal is Resigned_


                                                         _June, 1530_.

Events have followed too quick and thick for me to note 'em. Father's
embassade to Cambray, and then his summons to Woodstock. Then the fire
in the men's quarter, the outhouses and barns. Then, more unlookt for,
the fall of my lord cardinall and father's elevation to the
chancellorship.

On the day succeeding his being sworn in, Patteson marched hither and
thither, in mourning and paper weepers, bearing a huge placard,
inscribed, "Partnership dissolved," and crying, "My brother is dead; for
now they've made him Lord Chancellor, we shall ne'er see Sir Thomas
more."

Father's dispatch of business is such that one day before the end of
term he was told there was no cause or petition to be sett before him, a
thing unparalleled, which he desired might be formally recorded.

                                                            _July 28_.

Here's father at issue with half the learned heads in Christendom
concerning the king's marriage. And yet for alle that, I think father is
in the right.

He taketh matters soe to heart that e'en his appetite fails.

                                                             _August_.

He hath resigned the Great Seal! And none of us knew it until after
morning prayer to-day, when, instead of one of his gentlemen stepping up
to my mother in her pew, with the words, "Madam, my lord is gone," he
cometh up to her himself, smiling, and with these selfsame words. She
takes it at first for one of his manie jests whereof she misses the
point.

Our was but a short sorrow, for we have got father to ourselves again.
Patteson skipped across the garden, crying, "Let a fatted calf be
killed, for this my brother who was dead is alive again!"

How shall we contract the charges of Sir Thomas More? Certain servants
must go; poor Patteson, alas! can be easier spared than some.

                                                       _September 22_.

A tearfull morning. Poor Patteson has gone, but father had obtained him
good quarters with my Lord Mayor, and he is even to retain his office
with the Lord Mayor, for the time being.

                                                      _1533, April 1_.

The poor fool to see me, saying it is his holiday, and having told the
Lord Mayor overnight that if he lookt for a fool this morning, he must
look in the glass.

Patteson brought news of the coronation of Lady Anne this coming Easter,
and he begs father to take a fool's advice and eat humble pie; for, says
he, this proud madam is as vindictive as Herodias, and will have
father's head on a charger.

                                                            _April 4_.

Father bidden to the coronation by three bishops. He hath, with
curtesie, declined to be present. I have misgivings of the issue.

                                                           _April 15_.

Father summoned forth to the Council to take the oathe of supremacie.
Having declared his inabilitie to take the oathe as it stoode, they bade
him take a turn in the garden to reconsider. When called in agayn, he
was as firm as ever, and was given in ward to the Abbot of Westminster
until the king's grace was informed of the matter. And now the fool's
wise saying of vindictive Herodians came true, for 'twas the king's mind
to have mercy on his old servant, and tender him a qualified oathe, but
Queen Anne, by her importunate clamours, did overrule his proper will,
and at four days' end father was committed to the Tower. Oh, wicked
woman, how could you!... Sure you never loved a father.

                                                             _May 22_.

Mother hath at length obtaynd access to dear father. He is stedfaste and
cheerfulle as ever. He hath writ us a few lines with a coal, ending with
"_Sursum corda_, dear children! Up with your hearts."

                                                          _August 16_.

The Lord begins to cut us short. We are now on very meagre commons, dear
mother being obliged to pay fifteen shillings a week for the board,
meagre as it is, of father and his servant. She hath parted with her
velvet gown.

                                                          _August 20_.

I have seen him, and heard his precious words. He hath kist me for us
alle.

                                                 _November. Midnight_.

Dear little Bill hath ta'en a feverish attack. Early in the night his
mind wandered, and he says fearfullie, "Mother, why hangs yon hatchet in
the air with its sharp edge turned towards us?"

I rise, to move the lamp, and say, "Do you see it now?"

He sayth, "No, not now," and closes his eyes.

                                                        _November 17_.

He's gone, my pretty! ... Slipt through my fingers like a bird upfled to
his native skies. My Billy-bird! His mother's own heart! They are alle
wondrous kind to me....

                                                        _March, 1535_.

Spring comes, that brings rejuvenescence to the land and joy to the
heart, but none to me, for where hope dieth joy dieth. But patience,
soul; God's yet in the aumry!


_IV.--The Worst is Done_


                                                              _May 7_.

Father arraigned.

                                                             _July 1_.

By reason of Willie minding to be present at the triall, which, for the
concourse of spectators, demanded his earlie attendance, he committed
the care of me, with Bess, to Dancey, Bess's husband, who got us places
to see father on his way from the Tower to Westminster Hall. We coulde
not come at him for the crowd, but clambered on a bench to gaze our very
hearts away after him as he went by, sallow, thin, grey-haired, yet in
mien not a whit cast down. His face was calm but grave, but just as he
passed he caught the eye of some one in the crowd, and smiled in his old
frank way; then glanced up towards the windows with the bright look he
hath so oft caste up to me at my casement, but saw us not; perchance soe
'twas best.

...Will telleth me the indictment was the longest ever heard: on four
counts. First, his opinion concerning the king's marriage. Second, his
writing sundrie letters to the Bishop of Rochester, counselling him to
hold out. Third, refusing to acknowledge his grace's supremacy. Fourth,
his positive deniall of it, and thereby willing to deprive the king of
his dignity and title.

They could not make good their accusation. 'Twas onlie on the last count
he could be made out a traitor, and proof of't had they none. He shoulde
have been acquitted out of hand, but his bitter enemy, my Lord
Chancellor, called on him for his defence, whereat a general murmur ran
through the court.

He began, but a moment's weakness of the body overcame him and he was
accorded a seat. He then proceeded to avow his having always opposed the
king's marriage to his grace himself, deeming it rather treachery to
have withholden his opinion when solicited. Touching the supremacy he
held there could be no treachery in holding his peace, God only being
cognizant of our thoughts.

"Nay," interposeth the attorney generall, "your silence was the token of
a malicious mind."

"I had always understood," answers father, "that silence stoode for
consent," which made sundrie smile.

The issue of the black day was aforehand fixed. The jury retired and
presentlie returned with a verdict of guilty; for they knew what the
king's grace would have 'em doe in that case....

And then came the frightful sentence....

They brought him back by water ... The first thing I saw was the axe,
_turned with its edge towards him._

Some one laid a cold hand on mine arm; 'twas poor Patteson. He sayth,
"Bide your time, Mistress Meg; when he comes past, I'll make a passage
for ye." ...

O, brother, brother, what ailed thee to refuse the oath? I've taken it!
... "Now, Mistress, now!" and flinging his arms right and left, made a
breach, through which I darted, fearless of bills and halberds, and did
cast mine arms about father's neck. He cries, "My Meg!" and hugs me to
him as though our very souls shoulde grow together. He sayth, "Bless
thee, bless thee! Kiss them alle for me thus and thus." ... Soe gave me
back into Dancey's arms, the guards about him alle weeping.

I did make a second rush, and agayn they had pitie on me and made pause
while I hung upon his neck. He whispered, "Meg, for Christ's sake don't
unman me. God's blessing be with you," he sayth with a last kiss, then
adding, with a passionate upward regard, "The chariot of Israel and the
horsemen thereof!"

I look up, almost expecting a beautific vision, and when I turn about,
he's gone.

                                                           _July 5,6_.

Alle's over now.... They've done theire worst, and yet I live. Dr.
Clement sayth he went up as blythe as a bridegroom, to be clothed upon
with immortality.

                                                            _July 19_.

They have let us bury his poor mangled trunk; but as sure as there's a
sun in heaven, I'll have his head!--before another sun has risen, too.
If wise men won't speed me, I'll e'en content me with a fool.

                                                            _July 20_.

Quoth Patteson: "Fool and fayr lady will cheat 'em yet."

At the stairs lay a wherry with a couple of boatmen. We went down the
river quietlie enow--nor lookt I up till aneath the bridge gate, when,
casting up one fearsome look, I beheld the dark outline of the ghastly
yet precious relic; and falling into a tremour, did wring my hands and
exclaim, "Alas, alas! That head hath lain full manie a time in my lap,
woulde God it lay there now!" When o' suddain, I saw the pole tremble
and sway towardes me; and stretching forth my apron I did, in an extasy
of gladness, pity, and horror, catch its burthen as it fell.

Patteson, shuddering, yet grinning, cries under his breath, "Managed I
not well, mistress? Let's speed away with our theft, but I think not
they'll follow hard after us, for there are well-wishers on the bridge.
I'll put ye into the boat and then say, 'God sped ye, lady, with your
burthen.'"

                                                            _July 23_.

I've heard Bonvisi tell of a poor Italian girl who buried her murdered
lover's heart in a pot of basil, which she watered day and night with
her tears, just as I do my coffer. Will hath promised it shall be buried
with me; layd upon my heart, and since then I've been easier.

He thinks he shall write father's life, when we are settled in a new
home. We are to be cleared out o' this in alle haste; for the king
grutches at our lingering over father's footsteps, and yet when the news
of the bloody deed was taken to him, he scowled at Queen Anne, saying,
"Thou art the cause of this man's death!"

Flow on, bright shining Thames. A good, brave man hath walked aforetime
on your margent, himself as bright, and usefull, and delightsome as you,
sweet river. There's a river whose streams make glad the city of our
God. He now rests beside it. Good Christian folks, as they hereafter
pass this spot, will, maybe, point this way and say, "There dwelt Sir
Thomas More," but whether they doe or not, _Vox Populi_ is no very
considerable matter. Theire favourite of to-day may, for what they care,
goe hang himself to-morrow in his surcingle. Thus it must be while the
world lasts; and the very racks and scrues wherewith they aim to
overcome the nobler spiritt onlie lift and reveal its power of
exaltation above the heaviest gloom of circumstance.

_Interfecistis, interfecistis hominem omnium anglorum optimum._

       *       *       *       *       *




ALESSANDRO MANZONI


The Betrothed


     Poet, dramatist, and novelist, Alessandro Francesco Tommaso
     Manzoni was born at Milan on March 7, 1785. In early manhood
     he became an ardent disciple of Voltairianism, but after
     marriage embraced the faith of the Church of Rome; and it was
     in reparation of his early lapse that he composed his first
     important literary work, which took the form of a treatise on
     Catholic morality, and a number of sacred lyrics. Although
     Manzoni was perhaps surpassed as a poet by several of his own
     countrymen, his supreme position as novelist of the romantic
     school in Italy is indisputable. His famous work, "The
     Betrothed" ("I Promessi Sposi"), completed in 1822 and
     published at the rate of a volume a year during 1825-27, was
     declared by Scott to be the finest novel ever written. Manzoni
     died on May 22, 1873.


_I.--The Schemes of Don Rodrigo_


Don Abbondio, curé of a little town near Como, was no hero. It was,
therefore, the less difficult for two armed bravos whom he encountered
one evening in the year 1628 to convince him that the wedding of Renzo
Tramaglino and Lucia Mondella must not take place, as it did not suit
the designs of their master, Don Rodrigo. Renzo, however, was by no
means disposed to take this view of the matter, and was like to have
taken some desperate steps to express his disapproval. From this course
he was dissuaded by Fra Cristoforo, a Capuchin, renowned for his wisdom
and sanctity, who undertook to attempt to soften the heart of Don
Rodrigo.

The friar was held in affectionate esteem by all, even by Rodrigo's
bravos, and on his arrival at the castle he was at once shown into the
presence of its master.

"I come," said he, "to propose to you an act of justice. Some men of bad
character have made use of the name of your illustrious lordship to
alarm a poor curé, and dissuade him from performing his duty, and to
oppress two innocent persons--"

"In short, father," said Rodrigo, "I suppose there is some young girl
you are concerned about. Since you seem to think that I am so powerful,
advise her to come and put herself under my protection; she shall be
well looked after. Cowled rascal!" he shouted. "Vile upstart! Thank the
cassock that covers your cowardly shoulders for saving them from the
caresses that such scoundrels should receive. Depart, or--"

In the meantime, plans were being discussed in Lucia's cottage.

"Listen, my children," said Agnese, her mother; "if you were married,
that would be the great difficulty out of the way."

"Is there any doubt," said Renzo; "_if_ we were married--At Bergamo, not
far from here, a silk-weaver would be received with open arms. You know
my cousin Bartolo has wanted me to go there and make my fortune, as he
has done. Once married, we could all go thither together, and live in
blessed peace, out of this villain's reach."

"Listen, then," said Agnese. "There must be two witnesses; all four must
go to the priest and take him by surprise, that he mayn't have time to
escape. The man says, 'Signor Curé, this is my wife'; the woman says,
'Signor Curé, this is my husband.' It is necessary that the curé and the
witnesses hear it, and the marriage is then as valid and sacred as if
the Pope himself had blessed it."

"But why, then," said Lucia, "didn't this plan come into Fra
Cristoforo's mind?"

"Do you think it didn't?" replied she. "But--if you must know--the
friars disapprove of that sort of thing."

"If it isn't right, we ought not to do it."

"What! Would I give you advice contrary to the fear of God; if it were
against the will of your parents? But when I am satisfied, and he who
makes all this disturbance is a villain----Once it is done, what do you
think the father will say? 'Ah! daughter; it was a sad error, but it is
done.' In his heart he will be very well satisfied."

On the following night Don Abbondio was disturbed at a late hour by a
certain Tonio, who came with his cousin Gervase to pay a small debt.
While he was giving him a receipt for it, Renzo and Lucia slipped in
unperceived. The curé was startled on suddenly hearing the words,
"Signor Curé, in the presence of these witnesses, this is my wife."
Instantly grasping the situation, and before Lucia's lips could form a
reply, Don Abbondio seized the tablecloth, and at a bound wrapped her
head in it, so that she could not complete the formula. "Perpetua!" he
shouted to his housekeeper. "Help!"

Dashing to an inner room, he locked himself in, flung open the window,
and shouted for help. Hearing the uproar, the sexton, who lived next
door, shouted out, "What is it?"

"Help!" repeated the curé. Not being over desirous of thrusting himself
blindly in upon unknown dangers, the sexton hastened to the belfry and
vigorously rang the great bell. This ringing the bell had more
far-reaching consequences than he anticipated. Enraged by the friar's
visit, Rodrigo had determined to abduct Lucia, and sent his bravos to
effect his purpose that very night. At the very moment that the bell
began to ring they had just broken into Agnese's house, and were
searching for the occupants. Convinced that their action was the cause
of commotion, they beat a hasty retreat.

The discomfited betrothed--still only betrothed--hastily rejoined
Agnese, who was waiting for them in the street. As they hurriedly turned
their steps homeward a child threw himself into their way.

"Back! Back!" he breathlessly exclaimed. "This way to the monastery!"

"What is it?" asked Renzo.

"There are devils in your house," said the boy, panting. "I saw them;
Fra Cristoforo said so; he sent me to warn you. He had news from someone
at the castle; you must go to him at the monastery at once."

"My children," said Fra Cristoforo on their arrival, "the village is no
longer safe for you; for a time, at least, you must take refuge
elsewhere. I will arrange for you, Lucia, to be taken care of in a
convent at Monza. You, Renzo, must put yourself in safety from the anger
of others, and your own. Carry this letter to Father Bonaventura, in our
monastery at Milan. He will find you work."


_II.--The Riot of the Hungry_


Fra Bonaventura was out when Renzo arrived to present his letter.

"Go and wait in the church, where you may employ yourself profitably,"
was the porter's advice, which Renzo was about to follow, when a
tumultuous crowd came in sight. Here, apparently, was matter of greater
interest, so he turned aside to see the cause of the uproar.

The cause, though Renzo did not at the time discover it, was the
shortage of the bread supply. Owing to the ravages of war and the
disturbed state of the country, much land lay uncultivated and deserted;
insupportable taxes were levied; and no sooner had the deficient harvest
been gathered in than the provisions for the army, and the waste which
always accompanies them, made a fearful void in it. What had attracted
Renzo's attention was but the sudden exacerbation of a chronic disease.

Mingling with the hurrying mob, Renzo soon discovered that they had been
engaged in sacking a bakery, and were filled with fury to find large
quantities of flour, the existence of which the authorities had denied.
"The superintendent! The tyrant! We'll have him, dead or alive!"

Renzo found himself borne along in the thickest of the throng to the
house of the superintendent, where a tremendous crowd was endeavouring
to break in the doors. The tumult being allayed by the arrival of
Ferrer, the chancellor, a popular favourite, Renzo became involved in
conversation with some of the rioters. He asked to be directed to an inn
where he could pass the night.

"I know an inn that will suit you," said one who had listened to all the
speeches without himself saying a word. "The landlord is a friend of
mine, a very worthy man."

So saying, he took Renzo off to an inn at some little distance, taking
pains to ascertain who he was and whence he came. Arrived at the inn,
the new companions shared a bottle of wine which, in Renzo's excited
condition, soon mounted to his head. Another bottle was called for; and
the landlord, being asked if he had a bed, produced pen, ink, and paper,
and demanded his name, surname and country.

"What has all this to do with my bed?"

"I do my duty. We are obliged to report everyone that sleeps in the
house."

"Oh, so I'm to tell my business, am I? This is something new. Supposing
I had come to Milan to confess, I should go to a Capuchin father, not to
an innkeeper."

"Well, if you won't, you won't!" said the landlord, with a glance at
Renzo's companion. "I've done my duty."

So saying, he withdrew, and shortly afterwards the new-found friend
insisted on taking his departure. At daybreak Renzo was awakened by a
shake and a voice calling, "Lorenzo Tramaglino."

"Eh, what does this mean? What do you want? Who told you my name?" said
Renzo, starting up, amazed to find three men, two of them fully armed,
standing at his bedside.

"You must come with us. The high sheriff wants to have some words with
you."

Renzo now found himself being led through the streets, that were still
filled with a considerable number of last night's rioters, by no means
yet pacified. When they had gone a little way some of the crowd,
noticing them, began to form around the party.

"If I don't help myself now," thought Renzo, "it's my own fault. My
friends," he shouted, "they're carrying me off because yesterday I
shouted 'Bread and Justice!' Don't abandon me, my friends!"

The crowd at once began to press forward, and the bailiffs, fearing
danger, let go of his hands and tried to disappear into the crowd. Renzo
was carried off safely.

His only hope of safety now lay in getting entirely clear of Milan and
hiding himself in some other town out of the jurisdiction of the duchy.
He decided to go to Bergamo, which was under Venetian government, where
he could live safely with his cousin until such time as Milan had
forgotten him.


_III.--The Unnamed's Penitence_


Don Rodrigo was now more determined than ever to accomplish his
praiseworthy undertaking, and to this end he sought the help of a very
formidable character, a powerful noble, whose bravos had long been the
terror of the countryside, and who was always referred to as "The
Unnamed."

Lucia, having been sent one day with a note from the convent where she
had found refuge to a monastery at some little distance, found herself
suddenly seized from behind, and, regardless of her screams, bundled
into a carriage, which drove off at a great pace.

When the carriage stopped, after a long drive, Lucia was hurried into a
litter, which bore her up a steep hill to a castle, where she was shut
up in a room with an old crone. After a while a resounding knock was
heard on the door, and the Unnamed strode in.

Casting a glance around, he discovered Lucia crouched down on the floor
in a corner.

"Come, get up!" he said to her.

The unhappy girl raised herself on her knees, and raised her hands to
him.

"Oh, what have I done to you? Where am I? Why do you make me suffer the
agonies of hell? In the name of God--"

"God!" interrupted he; "always God! They who cannot defend themselves
must always bring forward this God. What do you expect by this word? To
make me--"

"Oh, signor, what can a poor girl like me expect, except that you should
have mercy upon me? God pardons so many sins for one deed of mercy. For
charity's sake, let me go! I will pray for you all my life. Oh, see, you
are moved to pity! Say one word; oh, say it! God pardons so many sins
for one deed of mercy!"

"Oh, why isn't she the daughter of one of the dogs who outlawed me?"
thought the Unnamed. "Then I should enjoy her sufferings; but instead--"

"Don't drive away a good inspiration!" continued Lucia earnestly, seeing
a certain hesitation in his face.

"Perhaps some day even you--But no--no, I will always pray the Lord to
keep you from every evil."

"Come, take courage," said the Unnamed, with unusual gentleness. "Have I
done you any harm? To-morrow morning--"

"Oh set me free now!"

"To-morrow I will see you again."

When he left her, the unhappy girl flung herself on her knees. "O most
holy Virgin," she prayed, "thou to whom I have so often recommended
myself, and who hast so often comforted me! Bring me out of this danger,
bring me safely to my mother, and I vow unto thee to continue a virgin!
I renounce for ever my unfortunate betrothed, that I may belong only to
thee!"

The Unnamed retired for the night, but not to sleep. "God pardons so
many sins for one deed of mercy!" kept ringing in his ears. Suppose
there was a God, after all? He had so many sins in need of pardon.

About daybreak a confused murmur reached his ear from the valley below;
a distant chiming of bells began to make itself heard; nearer bells took
up the peal, until the whole air rang with the sound. He demanded the
cause of all this rejoicing, and was informed that Cardinal Boromeo had
arrived, and that the festival was in his honour.

He went to Lucia's apartment, and found her still huddled up in a
corner, but sleeping. The hag explained that she could not be prevailed
upon to go to bed.

"Then let her sleep. When she wakes, tell her that I will do all she
wishes."

Leaving the castle with rapid steps, the Unnamed hastened to the village
where the cardinal had rested the previous night.

"Oh," cried Federigo Boromeo, "what a welcome visit is this. You have
good news for me, I am sure."

"Good news! What good news can you expect from such as I?"

"That God has touched your heart, and would make you His own."

"God! God! If I could but see Him! If He be such as they say, what do
you suppose that He can do with me?"

"The world has long cried out against you," replied Federigo in a solemn
voice. "He can acquire through you a glory such as others cannot give
Him. How must He love you, Who has bid and enabled me to regard you with
a charity that consumes me!" So saying, he extended his hand.

"No!" cried the penitent. "Defile not your hand! You know not all that
the one you would grasp has committed."

"Suffer me to press the hand which will repair so many wrongs, comfort
so many afflicted, be extended peacefully and humbly to so many
enemies."

"Unhappy man that I am," exclaimed the signor, "one thing, at least, I
can quickly arrest and repair."

Federigo listened attentively to the relation of Lucia's abduction. "Ah,
let us lose no time!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "This is an earnest of
God's forgiveness, to make you an instrument of safety to one whom you
would have ruined."


_IV.--In a Lazzeretto_


Thanks to his cousin, Renzo was enabled to earn very good wages, and
would have been quite content to remain had it not been for his desire
to rejoin Lucia. A terrible outbreak of plague in Milan spread to
Bergamo, and our friend was among the first to be stricken down, his
recovery being due more to his excellent constitution than to any
medical skill. Thereafter, he lost no more time, and after many
inquiries he succeeded in tracing Lucia to an address in Milan.

Secure in an _alias_, he set out to the plague-stricken city, which he
found in the most deplorable condition. Having found the house of which
he was in search, he knocked loudly at the door and inquired if Lucia
still lived there. To his horror, he found that she had been taken to
the Lazzeretto!

Let the reader imagine the enclosure of the Lazzeretto, peopled with
16,000 persons ill of the plague; the whole area encumbered, here with
tents and cabins, there with carts, and elsewhere with people; crowded
with dead or dying, stretched on mattresses, or on bare straw; and
throughout the whole a commotion like the swell of the sea.

"Lucia, I've found you! You're living!" exclaimed Renzo, all in a
tremble.

"Oh, blessed Lord!" cried she, trembling far more violently. "You?"

"How pale you are! You've recovered, though?"

"The Lord has pleased to leave me here a little longer. Ah, Renzo, why
are you here?"

"Why? Need I say why? Am I no longer Renzo? Are you no longer Lucia?"

"Ah, what are you saying? Didn't my mother write to you?"

"Ay, that indeed she did. Fine things to offer to an unfortunate,
afflicted, fugitive wretch who had never done you wrong."

"But, Renzo, Renzo, you don't think what you're saying! A promise to the
Madonna--a vow!"

"And I think better of the Madonna than you do, for I believe she
doesn't wish for promises that injure one's fellow-creatures. Promise
her that our first daughter shall be called Maria, for that I'm willing
to promise, too. That is a devotion that may have some use, and does no
harm to anyone."

"You don't know what it is to make a vow. Leave me, for heaven's sake,
and think no more about me--except in your prayers!"

"Listen, Lucia! Fra Cristoforo is here. I spoke with him but a short
while ago, while I was searching for you, and he told me that I did
right to come and look for you; and that the Lord would approve my
acting so, and would surely help me to find you, which has come to
pass."

"But if he said so, he didn't know------"

"How should he know of things you've done out of your own head, and
without the advice of a priest? A good man, as he is, would never think
of things of this kind. And he spoke, too, like a saint. He said that
perhaps God designed to show mercy to that poor fellow, for so I must
now call him, Don Rodrigo, who is now in this place, and waits to take
him at the right moment, but wishes that we should pray for him
together. Together! You hear? He told me to go back and tell him whether
I'd found you. I'm going. We'll hear what he says."

After a while, Renzo returned with Fra Cristoforo. "My daughter," said
the father, "did you recollect, when you made that vow, that you were
bound by another promise?"

"When it related to the Madonna?"

"My daughter, the Lord approves of offerings when we make them of our
own. It is the heart, the will that He desires. But you could not offer
Him the will of another, to Whom you had pledged yourself."

"Have I done wrong?"

"No, my poor child. But tell me, have you no other motive that hinders
you from fulfilling your promise to Renzo?"

Lucia blushed crimson. "Nothing else," she whispered.

"Then, my child, you know that the Church has power to absolve you from
your vow?"

"But, father, is it not a sin to turn back and repent of a promise made
to the Madonna? I made it at the time with my whole heart----" said
Lucia, violently agitated by so unexpected a hope.

"A sin? A sin to have recourse to the Church, and to ask her minister to
make use of the authority which he has received, through her, from God?
And if you request me to declare you absolved from this vow, I shall not
hesitate to do it; nay, I wish that you may request me."

"Then--then--I do request it!"

In an explicit voice the father then said, "By the authority I have
received from the Church, I declare you absolved from the vow of
virginity, and free you from every obligation you may thereby have
contracted. Beseech the Lord again for those graces you once besought to
make you a holy wife; and rely on it, He will bestow them upon you after
so many sorrows."

"Has Renzo told you," Fra Cristoforo continued, "whom he has seen here?"

"Oh, yes, father, he has!"

"You will pray for him. Don't be weary of doing so. And pray also for
me."

Some weeks later, Don Abbondio received a visit, as unexpected as it was
gratifying, from the marquis who, on Rodrigo's death from the plague,
succeeded to his estates.

"I come," said he, "to bring you the compliments of the cardinal
archbishop. He wishes to have news of the young betrothed persons of
this parish, who had to suffer on account of the unfortunate Don
Rodrigo."

"Everything is settled, and they will be man and wife as soon as
possible."

"And I request that you be good enough to tell me if I can be of any
service to them."

       *       *       *       *       *

And here we may safely leave Renzo and Lucia. Their powerful protector
easily secured Renzo's pardon, and shortly afterwards they were happily
married and settled in Bergamo, where abundant prosperity came to them;
and, furthermore, they were blessed with a large family, of whom the
first, being a girl, was named Maria.

       *       *       *       *       *




FREDERICK MARRYAT


Mr. Midshipman Easy


     Frederick Marryat, novelist and captain in the navy, was born
     in London on July 10, 1792. As a boy he chiefly distinguished
     himself by repeatedly running away from school with the
     intention of going to sea. His first experience of naval
     service was under Lord Cochrane, whom he afterwards reproduced
     as Captain Savage of the Diomede in "Peter Simple." Honourable
     though Marryat's life at sea was, it is as a graphic depictor
     of naval scenes, customs, and character that he is known to
     the present generation. His first story, "Frank Mildmay"
     (1829), took the reading public by storm, and from that time
     onward he produced tale after tale with startling rapidity.
     "Peter Simple" is the best of Captain Marryat's novels, and
     "Mr. Midshipman Easy" is the most humorous. Published in
     volume form in 1836, after appearing serially in the pages of
     the "Metropolitan Magazine," of which Marryat was then editor,
     the latter story immediately caught the fancy of the public,
     and considerably widened his already large circle of readers.
     "Mr. Midshipman Easy" is frankly farcical; it shows its author
     not only as a graphic writer, but as one gifted with an
     abundance of whimsical humour and a keen sense of
     characterisation. Opinions may differ as to the actual merits
     of "Mr. Midshipman Easy," but it has more than served its
     author's purpose--it has held the public for over seventy
     years. Captain Marryat died on August 9, 1848.


_I.--Mr. Easy Joins His Majesty's Service_


Mr. Nicodemus Easy was a gentleman who lived down in Hampshire. He was a
married man, and in very easy circumstances, and having decided to be a
philosopher, he had fixed upon the rights of man, equality, and all
that--how every person was born to inherit his share of the earth--for
his philosophy.

At the age of fourteen his only son, Jack, decided to go to sea.

"It has occurred to me, father," he said, "that although the whole earth
has been so nefariously divided among the few, the waters at least are
the property of all. No man claims his share of the sea; everyone may
there plough as he pleases without being taken up for a trespasser. It
is, then, only upon the ocean that I am likely to find that equality and
rights of man which we are so anxious to establish on shore; and
therefore I have resolved not to go to school again, which I detest, but
to go to sea."

"I cannot listen to that, Jack. You must return to school."

"All I have to say is, father, that I swear by the rights of man I will
not go back to school, and that I will go to sea. Was I not born my own
master? Has anyone a right to dictate to me as if I were not his equal?"

Mr. Easy had nothing to reply.

"I will write to Captain Wilson," he said mournfully.

Captain Wilson, who was under considerable obligations to Mr. Easy,
wrote in reply promising that he would treat Jack as his own son, and
our hero very soon found his way down to Portsmouth.

As Jack had plenty of money, and was very much pleased at finding
himself his own master, he was in no hurry to join his ship, and five or
six companions whom he had picked up strongly advised him to put it off
until the very last moment. So he was three weeks at Portsmouth before
anyone knew of his arrival.

At last, Captain Wilson, receiving a note from Mr. Easy, desired Mr.
Sawbridge, the first lieutenant, to make inquiries; and Mr. Sawbridge,
going on shore, and being informed by the waiter at the Fountain Inn
that Mr. Easy had been there three weeks, was justly indignant.

Mr. Sawbridge was a good officer, who had really worked his way up to
the present rank--that is, he had served seven-and-twenty years, and had
nothing but his pay. He was a good-hearted man; but when he entered
Jack's room, and saw the dinner-table laid out in the best style for
eight, his bile was raised by the display.

"May I beg to ask," said Jack, who was always remarkably polite in his
address, "in what manner I may be of service to you?"

"Yes sir, you may--by joining your ship immediately."

Hereupon, Jack, who did not admire the peremptory tone of Mr. Sawbridge,
very coolly replied. "And, pray, who are you?"

"Who am I, sir? My name is Sawbridge, sir, and I am the first lieutenant
of the Harpy. Now, sir, you have your answer."

Mr. Sawbridge was not in uniform, but he imagined the name of the first
lieutenant would strike terror to a culprit midshipman.

"Really, sir," replied Jack. "What may be your exact situation on board?
My ignorance of the service will not allow me to guess; but if I may
judge from your behaviour, you have no small opinion of yourself."

"Look ye, young man, you may not know what a first lieutenant is; but,
depend upon it, I'll let you know very soon! In the meantime, sir, I
insist that you go immediately on board."

"I'm sorry that I cannot comply with your very moderate request,"
replied Jack coolly. "I shall go on board when it suits my convenience,
and I beg that you will give yourself no further trouble on my account."
He then rang the bell. "Waiter, show this gentleman downstairs."

"By the god of wars!" exclaimed the first lieutenant. "But I'll soon
show you down to the boat, my young bantam! I shall now go and report
your conduct to Captain Wilson, and if you are not on board this
evening, to-morrow morning I shall send a sergeant and a file of marines
to fetch you."

"You may depend upon it," replied Jack, "that I also shall not fail to
mention to Captain Wilson that I consider you a very quarrelsome,
impertinent fellow, and recommend him not to allow you to remain on
board. It will be quite uncomfortable to be in the same ship with such
an ungentlemanly bear."

"He must be mad--quite mad!" exclaimed Sawbridge, whose astonishment
even mastered his indignation. "Mad as a March hare!"

"No, sir," replied Jack, "I am not mad, but I am a philosopher."

"A _what_? Well, my joker, all the better for you. I shall put your
philosophy to the proof."

"It is for that very reason, sir, that I have decided upon going to sea;
and if you do remain on board, I hope to argue the point with you, and
make you a convert to the truth of equality and the rights of man. We
are all born equal. I trust you'll allow that?"

"Twenty-seven years have I been in the service!" roared Sawbridge. "But
he's mad--downright, stark, staring mad!" And the first lieutenant
bounced out of the room.

"He calls me mad," thought Jack. "I shall tell Captain Wilson what is my
opinion about his lieutenant." Shortly afterwards the company arrived,
and Jack soon forgot all about it.

In the meantime, Sawbridge called at the captain's lodgings, and made a
faithful report of all that had happened.

Sawbridge and Wilson were old friends and messmates, and the captain put
it to the first lieutenant that Mr. Easy, senior, having come to his
assistance and released him from heavy difficulties with a most generous
cheque, what could he do but be a father to his son?

"I can only say," replied Sawbridge, "that, not only to please you, but
also from respect to a man who has shown such goodwill towards one of
our cloth, I shall most cheerfully forgive all that has passed between
the lad and me."

Captain Wilson then dispatched a note to our hero, requesting the
pleasure of his company to breakfast on the ensuing morning, and Jack
answered in the affirmative.

Captain Wilson, who knew all about Mr. Easy's philosophy, explained to
Jack the details and rank of every person on board, and that everyone
was equally obliged to obey orders. Lieutenant Sawbridge's demeanour was
due entirely to his zeal for his country.

That evening Mr. Jack Easy was safe on board his majesty's sloop Harpy.


_II.--On Board the Harpy_


Jack remained in his hammock during the first few days at sea. He was
very sick, bewildered, and confused, every minute knocking his head
against the beams with the pitching and tossing of the sloop.

"And this is going to sea," thought Jack. "No wonder that no one
interferes with another here, or talks about a trespass; for I am sure
anyone is welcome to my share of the ocean."

When he was well enough he was told to go to the midshipman's berth, and
Jack, who now felt excessively hungry, crawled over and between chests
until he found himself in a hole infinitely inferior to the dog-kennels
which received his father's pointers.

"I'd not only give up the ocean," thought Jack, "and my share of it, but
also my share of the Harpy, unto anyone who fancies it. Equality enough
here, for everyone appears equally miserably off."

But when he had gained the deck, the scene of cheerfulness, activity,
and order lightened his heart after the four days of suffering, close
air, and confinement from which he had just emerged.

Jack dined with the captain that night, and was very much pleased to
find that everyone drank wine with him, and that everybody at the
captain's table appeared to be on an equality. Before the dessert had
been on the table five minutes, Jack became loquacious on his favourite
topic. All the company stared with surprise at such an unheard-of
doctrine being broached on board of a man-of-war.

This day may be considered as the first in which Jack really made his
appearance on board, and it also was on this first day that Jack made
known, at the captain's table, his very peculiar notions. If the company
at the captain's table were astonished at such heterodox opinions being
started, they were equally astonished at the cool, good-humoured
ridicule with which they were received by Captain Wilson. The report of
Jack's boldness, and every word and opinion that he had uttered--of
course, much magnified--were circulated that evening through the whole
ship; the matter was canvassed in the gun-room by the officers, and
descanted upon by the midshipmen as they walked the deck. The boatswain
talked it over with the other warrant officers, till the grog was all
gone, and then dismissed it as too dry a subject.

The bully of the midshipman's berth--a young man about seventeen, named
Vigors--at once attacked our hero.

"So, my chap, you are come on board to raise a mutiny here with your
equality? You came off scot free at the captain's table, but it won't
do, I can tell you; someone must knock under in the midshipman's berth,
and you are one of them."

"I can assure you that you are mistaken," replied Easy.

At school Jack had fought and fought again, until he was a very good
bruiser, and although not so tall as Vigors, he was much better built
for fighting.

"I've thrashed bigger fellows than he," he said to himself.

"You impudent blackguard!" exclaimed Vigors. "If you say another word,
I'll give you a good thrashing, and knock some of your equality out of
you!"

"Indeed!" replied Jack, who almost fancied himself back at school.
"We'll try that!"

Vigors had gained his assumed authority more by bullying than fighting;
others had submitted to him without a sufficient trial. Jack, on the
contrary, had won his way up in school by hard and scientific combat.
The result, therefore, may easily be imagined. In less than a quarter of
an hour Vigors, beaten dead, with his eyes closed and three teeth out,
gave in; while Jack, after a basin of water, looked as fresh as ever.

After that, Jack declared that as might was right in a midshipman's
berth, he would so far restore equality that, let who would come, they
must be his master before they should tyrannise over those weaker than
he.


_III.--The Triangular Duel_


Jack, although generally popular on board, had made enemies of Mr.
Biggs, the boatswain, and Mr. Easthupp, the purser's steward. The
latter--a cockney and a thief--had even been kicked down the hatchway by
our hero.

When the Harpy was at Malta, Jack, wroth at the way the two men talked
at him, declared he would give them satisfaction.

"Mr. Biggs, let you and this fellow put on plain clothes, and I will
meet you both."

"One at a time?" said the boatswain.

"No, sir; not one at a time, but both at the same time. I will fight
both or none. If you are my superior officer, you must _descend_ to meet
me, or I will not descend to meet that fellow, whom I believe to have
been little better than a pickpocket!"

Mr. Biggs having declared that he would fight, of course, had to look
out for a second, and he fixed upon Mr. Tallboys, the gunner, and
requested him to be his friend. Mr. Tallboys consented, but he was very
much puzzled how to arrange that _three_ were to fight at the same time,
for he had no idea of there being two duels. Jack had no one to confide
in but Gascoigne, a fellow-midshipman; and although Gascoigne thought it
was excessively _infra dig._ of Jack to meet even the boatswain, as the
challenge had been given there was no retracting, and he therefore
consented and went to meet Mr. Tallboys.

"Mr. Gascoigne," said the gunner, "you see that there are three parties
to fight. Had there been two or four there would have been no
difficulty, as the straight line or square might guide us in that
instance; but we must arrange it upon the triangle in this."

Gascoigne stared. He could not imagine what was coming.

"The duel between three can only be fought upon the principle of the
triangle," the gunner went on. "You observe," he said, taking a piece of
chalk and making a triangle on the table, "in this figure we have three
points, each equidistant from each other; and we have three combatants,
so that, placing one at each point, it is all fair play for the three.
Mr. Easy, for instance, stands here, the boatswain here, and the
purser's steward at the third corner. Now, if the distance is fairly
measured it will be all right."

"But then," replied Gascoigne, delighted at the idea, "how are they to
fire?"

"It certainly is not of much consequence," replied the gunner; "but
still, as sailors, it appears to me that they should fire with the
sun--that is, Mr. Easy fires at Mr. Biggs, Mr. Biggs fires at Mr.
Easthupp, and Mr. Easthupp fires at Mr. Easy, so that you perceive that
each party has his shot at one, and at the same time receives the fire
of another."

Gascoigne was in ecstasies at the novelty of the proceeding.

"Upon my word, Mr. Tallboys, I give you great credit. You have a
profound mathematical head, and I am delighted with your arrangement. I
shall insist upon Mr. Easy consenting to your excellent and scientific
proposal."

Gascoigne went out and told Jack what the gunner had proposed, at which
Jack laughed heartily. The gunner also explained it to the boatswain,
who did not very well comprehend, but replied, "I daresay it's all
right. Shot for shot, and d---- all favours!"

The parties then repaired to the spot with two pairs of ship's pistols,
which Mr. Tallboys had smuggled on shore; and as soon as they were on
the ground, the gunner called Mr. Easthupp. In the meantime, Gascoigne
had been measuring an equilaterial triangle of twelve paces, and marked
it out. Mr. Tallboys, on his return with the purser's steward, went over
the ground, and finding that it was "equal angles subtended by equal
sides," declared that it was all right. Easy took his station, the
boatswain was put into his, and Mr. Easthupp, who was quite in a
mystery, was led by the gunner to the third position.

"But, Mr. Tallboys," said the purser's steward, "I don't understand
this. Mr. Easy will first fight Mr. Biggs, will he not?"

"No," replied the gunner; "this is a duel of three. You will fire at Mr.
Easy, Mr. Easy will fire at Mr. Biggs, and Mr. Biggs will fire at you.
It is all arranged, Mr. Easthupp."

"But," said Mr. Easthupp, "I do not understand it. Why is Mr. Biggs to
fire at me? I have no quarrel with Mr. Biggs."

"Because Mr. Easy fires at Mr. Biggs, and Mr. Biggs must have his shot
as well."

"But still, I've no quarrel with Mr. Biggs, and therefore, Mr. Biggs, of
course you will not aim at me."

"Why, you don't think that I'm going to be fired at for nothing?"
replied the boatswain. "No, no; I'll have my shot, anyhow!"

"But at your friend, Mr. Biggs?"

"All the same, I shall fire at somebody, shot for shot, and hit the
luckiest."

"Vel, gentlemen, I purtest against these proceedings," remarked Mr.
Easthupp. "I came here to have satisfaction from Mr. Easy, and not to be
fired at by Mr. Biggs."

"So you would have a shot without receiving one?" cried Gascoigne. "The
fact is that this fellow's a confounded coward."

At this affront, Mr. Easthupp rallied, and accepted the pistol offered
by the gunner.

"You 'ear those words, Mr. Biggs? Pretty language to use to a gentleman!
I purtest no longer, Mr. Tallboys. Death before dishonour--I'm a
gentleman!"

The gunner gave the word as if he were exercising the great guns on
board ship.

"Cock your locks! Take good aim at the object! Fire!"

Mr. Easthupp clapped his hand to his trousers, gave a loud yell, and
then dropped down, having presented his broadside as a target to the
boatswain. Jack's shot had also taken effect, having passed through both
the boatswain's cheeks, without further mischief than extracting two of
his best upper double teeth, and forcing through the hole of the farther
cheek the boatswain's own quid of tobacco. As for Mr. Easthupp's ball,
as he was very unsettled and shut his eyes before he fired, it had gone
heaven knows where.

The purser's steward lay on the ground and screamed; the boatswain threw
down his pistol in a rage. The former was then walked off to the
hospital, attended by the gunner, and also the boatswain, who thought he
might as well have a little medical advice before going on board.

"Well, Easy," said Gascoigne, collecting the pistols and tying them up
in his handkerchief, "I'll be shot, but we're in a pretty scrape;
there's no hushing this up. I'll be hanged if I care; it's the best
piece of fun I ever met with."

"I'm afraid that our leave will be stopped for the future," replied
Jack.

"Confound it, and they say that the ship is to be here six weeks at
least. I won't go on board. Look ye, Jack, we'll pretend to be so much
alarmed at the result of this duel, that we dare not show ourselves lest
we should be hung. I will write a note and tell all the particulars to
the master's mate, and refer to the gunner for the truth of it, and beg
him to intercede with the captain and first lieutenant. I know that
although we should be punished, they will only laugh; but I will pretend
that Easthupp is killed, and we are frightened out of our lives. That
will be it; and then let's get on board one of the fruit boats, sail in
the night for Palermo, and then we'll have a cruise for a fortnight, and
when the money is all gone we'll come back."

"That's a capital idea, Ned, and the sooner we do it the better."

They were two very nice lads.


_IV.--Jack Leaves the Service_


At the end of four years at sea, Jack had been cured of his philosophy
of equality. The death of his mother, and a letter from the old family
doctor that his father was not in his senses, decided him to return
home.

"It is fortunate for you that the estate is entailed," wrote Dr.
Middleton, "or you might soon be a beggar, for there is no saying what
debts your father might, in his madness, be guilty of. He has turned
away his keepers, and allowed poachers to go all over the manor. I
consider that it is absolutely necessary that you should immediately
return home and look after what will one day be your property. You have
no occasion to follow the profession with your income of £8,000 per
annum. You have distinguished yourself, now make room for those who
require it for their subsistence."

Captain Wilson approved of the decision, and Jack left the service. At
his request, his devoted admirer Mesty--an abbreviation of
Mephistopheles--an African, once a prince in Ashantee and now the cook
of the midshipmen's mess, was allowed to leave the service and accompany
our hero to England as his servant.

From the first utterances of Jack on the subject of liberty and
equality, he had won Mesty's heart, and in a hundred ways the black had
proved his fidelity and attachment. His delight at going home with his
patron was indescribable.

Jack had not written to his father to announce his arrival, and when he
reached home he found things worse than he expected.

His father was at the mercy of his servants, who, insolent and
insubordinate, robbed, laughed at, and neglected him. The waste and
expense were enormous. Our hero, who found how matters stood, soon
resolved what to do.

He rose early; Mesty was in the room, with warm water, as soon as he
rang.

"By de power, Massa Easy, your fader very silly old man!"

"I'm afraid so," replied Jack. "How are they getting on in the servants'
hall?"

"Regular mutiny, sar--ab swear dat dey no stand our nonsense, and dat we
both leave the house to-morrow."

Jack went to his father.

"Do you hear, sir, your servants declare that I shall leave your house
to-morrow."

"You leave my house, Jack, after four years' absence! No, no, I'll
reason with them--I'll make them a speech. You don't know how I can
speak, Jack."

"Look you, father, I cannot stand this. Either give me _carte blanche_
to arrange this household as I please, or I shall quit it myself
to-morrow morning."

"Quit my house, Jack! No, no--shake hands and make friends with them; be
civil, and they will serve you."

"Do you consent, sir, or am I to leave the house?"

"Leave the house! Oh, no; not leave the house, Jack. I have no son but
you. Then do as you please--but you will not send away my butler--he
escaped hanging last assizes on an undoubted charge of murder? I
selected him on purpose, and must have him cured, and shown as a proof
of a wonderful machine I have invented."

"Mesty," said Jack, "get my pistols ready for to-morrow morning, and
your own too--do you hear? It is possible, father, that you may not have
yet quite cured your murderer, and therefore it is as well to be
prepared."

Mr. Easy did not long survive his son's return, and under Jack's
management, in which Mesty rendered invaluable assistance, the household
was reformed, and the estate once more conducted on reasonable lines.

A year later Jack was married, and Mesty, as major domo, held his post
with dignity, and proved himself trustworthy.

       *       *       *       *       *




Peter Simple


     "Peter Simple," published in 1833, is in many respects the
     best of all Marryat's novels. Largely drawn from Marryat's own
     professional experiences, the story, with its vivid
     portraiture and richness of incident, is told with rare
     atmosphere and style. Hogg placed the character of "Peter
     Simple" on a level with Fielding's "Parson Adams;" Edgar Allan
     Poe, on the other hand, found Marryat's works "essentially
     mediocre."


_I.--I am Sacrificed to the Navy_


I think that had I been permitted to select my own profession in
childhood, I should in all probability have bound myself apprentice to a
tailor, for I always envied the comfortable seat which they appeared to
enjoy upon the shopboard. But my father, who was a clergyman of the
Church of England and the youngest brother of a noble family, had a
lucrative living, and a "soul above buttons," if his son had not. It has
been from time immemorial the custom to sacrifice the greatest fool of
the family to the prosperity and naval superiority of the country, and
at the age of fourteen, I was selected as the victim.

My father, who lived in the North of England, forwarded me by coach to
London, and from London I set out by coach for Portsmouth.

A gentleman in a plaid cloak sat by me, and at the Elephant and Castle a
drunken sailor climbed up by the wheel of the coach and sat down on the
other side.

I commenced a conversation with the gentleman in the plaid cloak
relative to my profession, and asked him whether it was not very
difficult to learn.

"Larn," cried the sailor, interrupting us, "no; it may be difficult for
such chaps as me before the mast to larn; but you, I presume, is a
reefer, and they ain't not much to larn, 'cause why, they pipe-clays
their weekly accounts, and walks up and down with their hands in their
pockets. You must larn to chaw baccy and drink grog, and then you knows
all a midshipman's expected to know nowadays. Ar'n't I right, sir?" said
the sailor, appealing to the gentleman in a plaid cloak. "I axes you,
because I see you're a sailor by the cut of your jib. Beg pardon, sir,"
continued he, touching his hat; "hope no offence."

"I am afraid that you have nearly hit the mark, my good fellow," replied
the gentleman.

At the bottom of Portsdown Hill I inquired how soon we should be at
Portsmouth. He answered that we were passing the lines; but I saw no
lines, and I was ashamed to show my ignorance. The gentleman in a plaid
cloak asked me what ship I was going to join, and whether I had a letter
of introduction to the captain.

"Yes, I have," replied I. And I pulled out my pocket-book, in which the
letter was. "Captain Savage, H.M. ship Diomede," I read.

To my surprise, he very coolly took the letter and proceeded to open it,
which occasioned me immediately to snatch the letter from him, stating
my opinion at the same time that it was a breach of honour, and that in
my opinion he was no gentleman.

"Just as you please, youngster," replied he. "Recollect, you have told
me I am no gentleman."

He wrapped his plaid around him and said no more, and I was not a little
pleased at having silenced him by my resolute behaviour.

I stayed at the Blue Posts, where all the midshipmen put up, that night,
and next morning presented myself at the George Inn with my letter of
introduction to Captain Savage.

"Mr. Simple, I am glad to see you," said a voice. And there sat, with
his uniform and epaulets, and his sword by his side, the passenger in
the plaid cloak who wanted to open my letter and whom I had told to his
face that he was "no gentleman!"

I thought I should have died, and was just sinking down upon my knees to
beg for mercy, when the captain, perceiving my confusion, burst out into
a laugh, and said, "So you know me again, Mr. Simple? Well, don't be
alarmed. You did your duty in not permitting me to open the letter,
supposing me, as you did, to be some other person, and you were
perfectly right, under that supposition, to tell me that I was not a
gentleman. I give you credit for your conduct. Now, I think the sooner
you go on board the better."

On my arrival on board, the first lieutenant, after looking at me
closely, said, "Now, Mr. Simple, I have looked attentively at your face,
and I see at once that you are very clever, and if you do not prove so
in a _very_ short time, why--you had better jump overboard, that's all."

I was very much terrified at this speech, but at the same time I was
pleased to hear that he thought me clever. My unexpected reputation was
shortly afterwards strengthened, when, noticing the first lieutenant in
consultation with the gunner, the former, on my approaching, said,
"Youngster hand me that _monkey's tail_."

I saw nothing like a monkey's tail, but I was so frightened that I
snatched up the first thing that I saw, which was a short bar of iron,
and it so happened that it was the very article which he wanted.

"So you know what a monkey's tail is already, do you?" said the first
lieutenant. "Now don't you ever sham stupid after that."

A fortnight later, at daylight, a signal from the flagship in harbour
was made for us to unmoor; our orders had come to cruise in the Bay of
Biscay. The captain came on board, the anchor weighed, and we ran
through the Needles with a fine breeze. Presently I felt so very ill
that I went down below. What occurred for the next six days I cannot
tell. I thought I should die every moment, and lay in my hammock,
incapable of eating, drinking, or walking about.

O'Brien, the senior midshipman and master's mate, who had been very kind
to me, came to me on the seventh, morning and said that if I did not
exert myself I never should get well; that he had taken me under his
protection, and to prove his regard would give me a good basting, which
was a sovereign remedy for sea-sickness. He suited the action to the
word, and drubbed me on the ribs without mercy until I thought the
breath was out of my body; but I obeyed his orders to go on deck
immediately, and somehow or other did contrive to crawl up the ladder to
the main deck, where I sat down and cried bitterly. What would I have
given to have been at home again! It was not my fault that I was the
greatest fool of the family, yet how was I punished for it! But, by
degrees, I recovered myself, and certainly that night I slept very
soundly.

The next morning O'Brien came to me again.

"It's a nasty slow fever, that sea-sickness, my Peter, and we must drive
it out of you."

And then he commenced a repetition of yesterday's remedy until I was
almost a jelly. Whether the fear of being thrashed drove away my
sickness, I do not know, but this is certain, that I felt no more of it
after the second beating, and the next morning when I awoke I was very
hungry.


_II.--I am Taken Prisoner_


One morning at daybreak we found ourselves about four miles from the
town of Cette, and a large convoy of vessels coming round a point. We
made all sail in chase, and they anchored close in shore under a
battery, which we did not discover until it opened fire upon us. The
captain tacked the ship, and stood out again, until the boats were
hoisted out, and all ready to pull on shore and storm the battery.
O'Brien, who was the officer commanding the first cutter on service, was
in his boat, and I obtained permission from him to smuggle myself into
it.

We ran ashore, amidst the fire of the gunboats which protected the
convoy, by which we lost three men, and made for the battery, which we
took without opposition, the French artillerymen running out as we ran
in. The directions of the captain were very positive not to remain in
the battery a minute after it was taken, but to board the gunboats,
leaving only one of the small boats, with the armourer, to spike the
guns, for the captain was aware that there were troops stationed along
the coast who might come down upon us and beat us off.

The first lieutenant, who commanded, desired O'Brien to remain with the
first cutter, and after the armourer had spiked the guns, as officer of
the boat he was to shove off immediately. O'Brien and I remained in the
battery with the armourer, the boat's crew being ordered down to the
boat to keep her afloat and ready to shove off at a moment's warning. We
had spiked all the guns but one, when all of a sudden a volley of
musketry was poured upon us, which killed the armourer, and wounded me
in the leg above the knee. I fell down by O'Brien, who cried out, "By
the powers, here they are, and one gun not spiked!" He jumped down,
wrenched the hammer from the armourer's hand, and seizing a nail from
the bag, in a few moments he had spiked the gun.

At this time I heard the tramping of the French soldiers advancing, when
O'Brien threw away the hammer and lifting me upon his shoulders cried,
"Come along, Peter, my boy," and made for the boat as fast as he could.
But he was too late; he had not got half-way to the boat before he was
collared by two French soldiers and dragged back into the battery. The
French troops then advanced and kept up a smart fire; our cutter escaped
and joined the other boat, who had captured the gunboats and convoy with
little opposition.

In the meantime, O'Brien had been taken into the battery with me on his
back; but as soon as he was there he laid me gently down, saying,
"Peter, my boy, as long as you were under my charge, I'd carry you
through thick and thin; but now that you are under the charge of these
French beggars, why, let them carry you."

When the troops ceased firing (and if O'Brien had left one gun unspiked
they must have done a great deal of mischief to our boats), the
commanding officer came up to O'Brien, and looking at him, said,
"Officer?" to which O'Brien nodded his head. He then pointed to
me--"Officer?" O'Brien nodded his head again, at which the French troops
laughed, and called me an _enfant_.

Then, as I was very faint and could not walk, I was carried on three
muskets, O'Brien walking by my side, till we reached the town of Cette;
there we were taken to the commanding officer's house. It turned out
that this officer's name was also O'Brien, and that he was of Irish
descent. He and his daughter Celeste, a little girl of twelve, treated
us both with every kindness. Celeste was my little nurse, and we became
very intimate, as might be expected. Our chief employment was teaching
each other French and English.

Before two months were over, I was quite recovered, and soon the time
came when we were to leave our comfortable quarters for a French prison.
Captain Savage had sent our clothes and two hundred dollars to us under
a flag of truce, and I had taken advantage of this to send a letter off
which I dictated to Colonel O'Brien, containing my statement of the
affair, in which I mentioned O'Brien's bravery in spiking the gun and in
looking after me. I knew that he would never tell if I didn't.

At last the day came for us to leave, and my parting with Celeste was
very painful. I promised to write to her, and she promised to answer my
letters if it were permitted. We shook hands with Colonel O'Brien,
thanking him for his kindness, and much to his regret we were taken in
charge by two French cuirassiers, and so set off, on parole, on
horseback for Toulon.

From Toulon we were moved to Montpelier, and from Montpelier to Givet, a
fortified town in the department of Ardennes, where we arrived exactly
four months after our capture.


_III.--We Make Our Escape_


O'Brien had decided at once that we should make our escape from the
prison at Givet.

First he procured a plan of the fortress from a gendarme, and then, when
we were shown into the room allotted to us, and our baggage was
examined, the false bottom of his trunk was not noticed, and by this
means various instruments he had bought on the road escaped detection.
Round his body O'Brien had also wound a rope of silk, sixty feet long,
with knots at every two feet.

The practicability of escape from Givet seemed to me impossible. The
yard of the fortress was surrounded by a high wall; the buildings
appropriated for the prisoners were built with lean-to roofs on one
side, and at each side of the square was a sentry looking down upon us.
We had no parole, and but little communication with the towns-people.

But O'Brien, who often examined the map he had procured from the
gendarme, said to me one day, "Peter, can you swim?"

"No," replied I; "but never mind that."

"But I must mind it, Peter; for observe we shall have to cross the River
Meuse, and boats are not always to be had. This fortress is washed by
the river on one side; and as it is the strongest side it is the least
guarded--we must escape by it. I can see my way clear enough till we get
to the second rampart on the river, but when we drop into the river, if
you cannot swim, I must contrive to hold you up somehow or other. But
first tell me, do you intend to try your luck with me?"

"Yes," replied I, "most certainly, if you have sufficient confidence in
me to take me as your companion."

"To tell you the truth, Peter, I would not give a farthing to escape
without you. We were taken together, and, please God, we'll take
ourselves off together, directly we get the dark nights and foul
weather."

We had been about two months in Givet when letters arrived. My father
wrote requesting me to draw for whatever money I might require, and also
informing me that as my Uncle William was dead, there was now only one
between him and the title, but that my grandfather, Lord Privilege, was
in good health. O'Brien's letter was from Captain Savage; the frigate
had been sent home with despatches, and O'Brien's conduct represented to
the Admiralty, which had, in consequence, promoted him to the rank of
lieutenant. We read each other's letters, and O'Brien said, "I see your
uncle is dead. How many more uncles have you?"

"My Uncle John, who is married, and has already two daughters."

"Blessings on him! Peter, my boy, you shall be a lord before you die."

"Nonsense, O'Brien; I have no chance."

"What chance had I of being lieutenant, and am I not one? And now, my
boy, prepare yourself to quit this cursed hole in a week, wind and
weather permitting. But, Peter, do me one favour. As I am really a
lieutenant, just touch your hat to me, only once, that's all; but I wish
the compliment, just to see how it looks."

"Lieutenant O'Brien," said I, touching my hat, "have you any further
orders?"

"Yes, sir," replied he; "that you never presume to touch your hat to me
again, unless we sail together, and then that's a different sort of
thing."

A week later, O'Brien's preparations were complete. I had bought a new
umbrella on his advice, and this he had painted with a preparation of
oil and beeswax. He had also managed to procure a considerable amount of
twine, which he had turned into a sort of strong cord, or square plait.

At twelve o'clock on a dark November night we left our room and went
down into the yard. By means of pieces of iron, which he drove into the
interstices of the stone, we scaled a high wall, and dropped down on the
other side by a drawbridge. Here the sentry was asleep, but O'Brien
gagged him, and I threw open the pan of his musket to prevent him from
firing.

Then I followed O'Brien into the river. The umbrella was opened and
turned upwards, and I had only to hold on to it at arm's-length. O'Brien
had a tow line, and taking this in his teeth, he towed me down with the
stream to about a hundred yards clear of the fortress, where we landed.
O'Brien was so exhausted that for a few minutes he remained quite
motionless. I also was benumbed with the cold.

"Peter," said he, "thank God we have succeeded so far. Now we must push
on as far as we can, for we shall have daylight in two hours."

It was not till some months later that, after many adventures, we
reached Flushing, and procured the services of a pilot. With a strong
tide and a fair wind we were soon clear of the Scheldt, and next morning
a cutter hove in sight, and in a few minutes we found ourselves once
more under the British pennant.


_IV.--In Bedlam_


Once, in the West Indies, O'Brien and I had again come across our good
friend Colonel O'Brien and his daughter Celeste. He was now General
O'Brien, Governor of Martinique; and Celeste was nineteen, and I
one-and-twenty. And though France and England were still at war, before
we parted Celeste and I were lovers, engaged to be married; and the
general raised no objection to our attachment.

On our return from that voyage a series of troubles overtook me. My
grandfather, Lord Privilege, had begun to take some interest in me; but
before he died my uncle went to live with him, and so poisoned his mind
against me that when the old lord's will was read it was found that
£10,000 bequeathed to me had been cancelled by a codicil. As both my
brothers and my other uncle were dead, my uncle was enraged at the
possibility of my succeeding to the title.

The loss of £10,000 was too much for my father's reason, and from lunacy
he went quietly to his grave, leaving my only sister, Ellen, to find a
home among strangers.

In the meantime, O'Brien had been made a captain, and had sailed for the
East Indies. I was to have accompanied him, but my uncle, who had now
succeeded to the title, had sufficient influence at the Admiralty to
prevent this, and I was appointed first lieutenant to a ship whose
captain, an illegitimate son of Lord Privilege, was determined to ruin
me. Captain Hawkins was a cowardly, mean, tyrannical man, and, although
I kept my temper under all his petty persecutions, he managed at last to
string together a number of accusations and, on our return, send me to a
court-martial.

The verdict of the court-martial was that "the charges of
insubordination had been partly proved, and therefore that Lieutenant
Peter Simple was dismissed his ship; but in consideration of his good
character and services his case was strongly recommended to the
consideration of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty."

I hardly knew whether I felt glad or sorry at this sentence. On the one
hand, in spite of the fourteen years I had served, it was almost a
death-blow to my future advancement or employment in the service; on the
other, the recommendation very much softened down the sentence, and I
was quite happy to be quit of Captain Hawkins and free to hasten to my
poor sister.

I hurried on shore, but on my journey north fell ill with fever, and for
three weeks was in a state of alternate stupor and delirium, lying in a
cottage by the roadside.

My uncle, learning of my condition, thought this too favourable an
opportunity, provided I should live, not to have me in his power. He
sent to have me removed, and some days afterwards--for I recollect
nothing about the journey--I found myself in bed in a dark room, and my
arms confined. Where was I? Presently the door opened, and a man entered
who took down a shutter, and the light streamed in. The walls were bare
and whitewashed. I looked at the window; it was closed up with two iron
bars.

"Why, where am I?" I inquired, with alarm.

"Where are you?" replied he. "Why, in Bedlam!"

As I afterwards discovered, my uncle had had me confined upon the plea
that I was a young man who was deranged with an idea that his name was
Simple, and that he was the heir to the title and estates, and that it
was more from the fear of my coming to some harm than from any ill-will
toward the poor young man that he wished me to remain in the hospital
and be taken care of. Under these circumstances, I remained in Bedlam
for one year and eight months.

A chance visit from General O'Brien, a prisoner on parole, who was
accompanied by his friend, Lord Belmore, secured my release; and shortly
afterwards I commenced an action for false imprisonment against Lord
Privilege. But the sudden death of my uncle stopped the action, and gave
me the title and estates. The return of my old messmate, Captain
O'Brien, who had just been made Sir Terence O'Brien, in consequence of
his successes in the East Indies, added to my happiness.

I found that Sir Terence had been in love with my sister Ellen from the
day I had first taken him home, and that Ellen was equally in love with
him; so when Celeste consented to my entreaties that our wedding should
take place six weeks after my assuming the title, O'Brien took the hint
and spoke.

Both unions have been attended with as much happiness as this world can
afford. O'Brien and I are blessed with children, until we can now muster
a large Christmas party in the two families.

Such is the history of Peter Simple, Viscount Privilege, no longer the
fool, but the head, of the family.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHARLES MATURIN


Melmoth the Wanderer


     The romances of Charles Robert Maturin mark the transition
     stage between the old crude "Gothic" tales of terror and the
     subtler and weirder treatment of the supernatural that had its
     greatest master in Edgar Allan Poe. Maturin was born at Dublin
     in 1782, and died there on October 30, 1824. He became a
     clergyman of the Church of Ireland; but his leanings were
     literary rather than clerical, and his first story, "Montorio"
     (1807), was followed by others that brought him increasing
     popularity. Over-zealousness on a friend's behalf caused him
     heavy financial losses, for which he strove to atone by an
     effort to write for the stage. Thanks to the good offices of
     Scott and Byron, his tragedy, "Bertram," was acted at Drury
     Lane in 1816, and proved successful. But his other dramatic
     essays were failures, and he returned to romance. In 1820 was
     published his masterpiece, "Melmoth the Wanderer," the central
     figure of which is acknowledged to be one of the great Satanic
     creations of literature. The book has been more appreciated in
     France than in England; one of its most enthusiastic admirers
     was Balzac, who paid it the compliment of writing a kind of
     sequel to it.


_I.--The Portrait_


"I want a glass of wine," groaned the old man; "it would keep me alive a
little longer."

John Melmoth offered to get some for him. The dying man clutched the
blankets around him, and looked strangely at his nephew.

"Take this key," he said. "There is wine in that closet."

John knew that no one but his uncle had entered the closet for sixty
years--his uncle who had spent his life in greedily heaping treasure
upon treasure, and who, now, on his miserable death-bed, grudged the
clergyman's fee for the last sacrament.

When John stepped into the closet, his eyes were instantly riveted by a
portrait that hung on the wall. There was nothing remarkable about
costume or countenance, but the eyes, John felt, were such as one feels
they wish they had never seen. In the words of Southey, "they gleamed
with demon light." John held the candle to the portrait, and could
distinguish the words on the border: "Jno. Melmoth, anno 1646." He gazed
in stupid horror until recalled by his uncle's cough.

"You have seen the portrait?" whispered old Melmoth.

"Yes."

"Well, you will see him again--he is still alive."

Later in the night, when the miser was at the point of death, John saw a
figure enter the room, deliberately look round, and retire. The face of
the figure was the face of the portrait! After a moment of terror, John
sprang up to pursue, but the shrieks of his uncle recalled him. The
agony was nearly ended; in a few minutes old Melmoth was dead.

In the will, which made John a wealthy man, there was an instruction to
him to destroy the portrait in the closet, and also to destroy a
manuscript that he would find in the mahogany chest under the portrait;
he was to read the manuscript if he pleased.

On a cold and gloomy evening John entered the closet, found the
manuscript, and with a feeling of superstitious awe, began to read it.
The task was a hard one, for the manuscript was discoloured and
mutilated, and much was quite indecipherable.

John was able to gather, however, that it was the narrative of an
Englishman, named Stanton, who had travelled in Spain in the seventeenth
century. On one night of storm, Stanton had seen carried past him the
bodies of two lovers who had been killed by lightning. As he watched, a
man had stepped forward, had looked calmly at the bodies, and had burst
into a horrible demoniac laugh. Stanton saw the man several times,
always in circumstances of horror; he learnt that his name was Melmoth.
This being exercised a kind of fascination over Stanton, who searched
for him far and wide. Ultimately, Stanton was confined in a madhouse by
relatives who wanted to secure his property; and from the madhouse he
was offered, but refused, release by Melmoth as a result of some
bargain, the nature of which was not revealed.

After reading this story, John Melmoth raised his eyes, and he started
involuntarily as they encountered those of the portrait. With a shudder,
he tore the portrait from its frame, and rushed into his room, where he
flung its fragments on the fire.

The mansion was close by the iron-bound coast of Wicklow, in Ireland,
and on the next night John was summoned forth by the news that a vessel
was in distress. He saw immediately that the ship was doomed. She lay
beating upon a rock, against which the tempest hurled breakers that
dashed their foam to a height of thirty feet.

In the midst of the tumult John descried, standing a little above him on
the rock, a figure that showed neither sympathy nor terror, uttered no
sound, offered no help. A few minutes afterwards he distinctly heard the
words, "Let them perish!"

Just then a tremendous wave dashing over the vessel extorted a cry of
horror from the spectators. When the cry had ceased, Melmoth heard a
laugh that chilled his blood. It was from the figure that stood above
him. He recalled Stanton's narrative. In a blind fury of eagerness, he
began to climb the rock; but a stone gave way in his grasp, and he was
hurled into the roaring deep below.

It was several days before he recovered his senses, and he then learned
that he had been rescued by the one survivor of the wreck, a Spaniard,
who had clutched at John and dragged him ashore with him. As soon as
John had recovered somewhat, he hastened to thank his deliverer, who was
lodged in the mansion. Having expressed his gratitude, Melmoth was about
to retire, when the Spaniard detained him.

"Señor," he said, "I understand your name is"--he gasped--"Melmoth?"

"It is."

"Had you," said the Spaniard rapidly, "a relative who was, about one
hundred and forty years ago, said to be in Spain?"

"I believe--I fear--I had."

"Are you his descendant? Are you the repository of that terrible secret
which--?" He gave way to uncontrollable agitation. Gradually he
recovered himself, and went on. "It is singular that accident should
have placed me within the reach of the only being from whom I could
expect either sympathy or relief in the extraordinary circumstances in
which I am placed--circumstances which I did not believe I should ever
disclose to mortal man, but which I shall disclose to you."


_II.--The Spaniard's Story_


I am, as you know, a native of Spain; but you are yet to learn that I am
a descendant of one of its noblest houses--the house of Monçada. While I
was yet unborn, my mother vowed that I should be devoted to religion. As
the time drew near when I was to forsake the world and retire to a
monastery, I revolted in horror at the career before me, and refused to
take the vows. But my family were completely under the influence of a
cunning and arrogant priest, who threatened God's curse upon me if I
disobeyed; and ultimately, with a despairing heart, I consented.

"The horror with which I had anticipated monastic life was nothing to my
disgust and misery at the realisation of its evils. The narrowness and
littleness of it, the hypocrisies, all filled me with revolt; and it was
only by brooding over possibilities of escape that I could avoid utter
despair. At length a ray of hope came to me. My younger brother, a lad
of spirit, who had quarrelled with the priest who dominated our family,
succeeded with great difficulty in communicating with me, and promised
that a civil process should be undertaken for the reclamation of my
vows.

"But presently my hopes were destroyed by the news that my civil process
had failed. Of the desolation of mind into which this failure plunged
me, I can give no account--despair has no diary. I remember that I used
to walk for hours in the garden, where alone I could avoid the
neighbourhood of the other monks. It happened that the fountain of the
garden was out of repair, and the workmen engaged upon it had had to
excavate a passage under the garden wall. But as this was guarded by day
and securely locked by night, it offered but a tantalising image of
escape and freedom.

"One evening, as I sat gloomily by the door of the passage, I heard my
name whispered. I answered eagerly, and a paper was thrust under the
door. I knew the handwriting--it was that of my brother Juan. From it I
learned that Juan was still planning my escape, and had found a
confederate within the monastery--a parricide who had turned monk to
evade his punishment.

"Juan had bribed him heavily, yet I feared to trust him until he
confided to me that he himself also intended to escape. At length our
plans were completed; my companion had secured the key of a door in the
chapel that led through the vaults to a trap-door opening into the
garden. A rope ladder flung by Juan over the wall would give us liberty.

"At the darkest hour of the night we passed through the door, and
crawled through the dreadful passages beneath the monastery. I reached
the top of the ladder-a lantern flashed in my eyes. I dropped down into
my brother's arms.

"We hurried away to where a carriage was waiting. I sprang into it.

"'He is safe,' cried Juan, following me.

"'But are you?' answered a voice behind him. He staggered and fell back.
I leapt down beside him. I was bathed in his blood. He was dead. One
moment of wild, fearful agony, and I lost consciousness.

"When I came to myself, I was lying in an apartment not unlike my cell,
but without a crucifix. Beside me stood my companion in flight.

"'Where am I?' I asked.

"'You are in the prison of the Inquisition,' he replied, with a mocking
laugh.

"He had betrayed me! He had been all the while in league with the
superior.

"I was tried again and again by the Inquisition--, charged not only with
the crime of escaping from the convent and breaking my religious vows,
but with the murder of my brother. My spirits sank with each appearance
before the judges. I foresaw myself doomed to die at the stake.

"One night, and for several nights afterwards, a visitor presented
himself to me. He came and went apparently without help or hindrance--as
if he had had a master-key to all the recesses of the prison. And yet he
seemed no agent of the Inquisition--indeed, he denounced it with caustic
satire and withering severity. But what struck me most of all was the
preternatural glare of his eyes. I felt that I had never beheld such
eyes blazing in a mortal face. It was strange, too, that he constantly
referred to events that must have happened long before his birth as if
he had actually witnessed them.

"On the night before my final trial, I awoke from a hideous dream of
burning alive to behold the stranger standing beside me. With an impulse
I could not resist, I flung myself before him and begged him to save me.
He promised to do so--on one awful and incommunicable condition. My
horror brought me courage; I refused, and he left me.

"Next day I was sentenced to death at the stake. But before my fearful
doom could be accomplished, I was free--and by that very agency of fire
that was to have destroyed me. The prison of the Inquisition was burned
to the ground, and in the confusion I escaped.

"When my strength was exhausted by running through the deserted streets,
I leaned against a door; it gave way, and I found myself within the
house. Concealed, I heard two voices--an old man's and a young man's.
The old man was confessing to the young one--his son--that he was a Jew,
and entreating the son to adopt the faith of Israel.

"I knew I was in the presence of a pretended convert--one of those Jews
who profess to become Catholics through fear of the Inquisition. I had
become possessed of a valuable secret, and instantly acted upon it. I
burst out upon them, and threatened that unless the old man gave me
hiding I should betray him. At first he was panic-stricken, then,
hastily promising me protection, he conducted me within the house. In an
inner room he raised a portion of the floor; we descended and went along
a dark passage, at the end of which my guide opened a door, through
which I passed. He closed it behind me, and withdrew.

"I was in an underground chamber, the walls of which were lined with
skeletons, bottles containing strange misshapen creatures, and other
hideous objects. I shuddered as I looked round.

"'Why fearest thou these?' asked a voice.' Surely the implements of the
healing art should cause no terror.'

"I turned and beheld a man immensely old seated at a table. His eyes,
although faded with years, looked keenly at me.

"'Thou hast escaped from the clutches of the Inquisition?' he asked me.

"'Yes,' I answered.

"'And when in its prison,' he continued, leaning forward eagerly, 'didst
thou face a tempter who offered thee deliverance at a dreadful price?'

"'It was so,' I answered, wondering.

"'My prayer, then, is granted,' he said. 'Christian youth, thou art safe
here. None save mine own Jewish people know of my existence. And I have
employment for thee.'

"He showed me a huge manuscript.

"'This,' he said, 'is written in characters that the officers of the
Inquisition understand not. But the time has come for transcribing it,
and my own eyes, old with age, are unequal to the labour. Yet it was
necessary that the work should be done by one who has learnt the dread
secret.'

"A glance at the manuscript showed me that the language was Spanish, but
the characters Greek. I began to read it, nor did I raise my eyes until
the reading was ended."


_III.--The Romance of Immalee_


"The manuscript told how a Spanish merchant had set forth for the East
Indies, taking his wife and son with him, and leaving an infant daughter
behind. He prospered, and decided to settle in the East; he sent for his
daughter, who came with her nurse. But their ship was wrecked; the child
and the nurse alone escaped, and were stranded on an uninhabited island
near the mouth of the Hooghly. The nurse died; but the child survived,
and grew up a wild and beautiful daughter of nature, dwelling in lonely
innocence, and revered as a goddess by the natives who watched her from
afar.

"To the Island, when Immalee (so she called herself) was growing into
pure and lovely womanhood, there came a stranger--pale-faced, wholly
different from the dark-skinned people she had seen from the shores of
the island. She welcomed him with innocent joy. He came often; he told
her of the outer world, of its wickedness and its miseries. She, too
untutored to realise the sinister bitterness of his tone, listened with
rapt attention and sympathy. She loved him. She told him that he was her
all, that she would cling to him wheresoever he went. He looked at her
with stern sorrow; he left her abruptly, nor did he ever visit the
island again.

"Immalee was rescued, her origin was discovered, and she became Isidora
de Aliaga, the carefully nurtured daughter of prosperous and devout
Spanish parents. The island and the stranger were memories of the past.
Yet one day, in the streets of Madrid, she beheld once more the
well-remembered eyes. Soon afterwards she was visited by the stranger.
How he entered and left her home when he came to her--and again he came
often--she could not tell. She feared him, and yet she loved him.

"At length her father, who had been on another voyage, announced that he
was returning, and bringing with him a suitable husband for his
newly-found daughter. Isidora, in panic, besought the stranger to save
her. He was unwilling. At last, in response to her tears, he consented.
They were wedded, so Isidora believed, by a hermit in a ruined
monastery. She returned home, and he renewed his visits, promising to
reveal their marriage in the fullness of time.

"Meanwhile, tales had reached her father's ears of a malignant being who
was permitted to wander over the earth and tempt men in dire extremity
with release from their troubles as the result of their concluding an
unspeakable bargain. This being himself appeared to the father, and
warned him that his daughter was in danger.

"He returned, and pressed on with preparations for the bridal ceremony.
Isidora entreated her husband to rescue her. He promised, and went away.
A masked ball was given in celebration of the nuptials. At the hour of
twelve Isidora felt a touch upon her shoulder. It was her husband. They
hastened away, but not unperceived. Her brother called on the pair to
stop, and drew his sword. In an instant he lay bleeding and lifeless.
The family and the guests crowded round in horror. The stranger waved
them back with his arm. They stood motionless, as if rooted to the
ground.

"'Isidora, fly with me!' he said. She looked at him, looked at the body
of her brother, and sank in a swoon. The stranger passed out amid the
powerless onlookers.

"Isidora, the confessed bride of an unhallowed being, was taken before
the Inquisition, and sentenced to life-long imprisonment. But she did
not survive long; and ere she died, her husband appeared to her, and
offered her freedom, happiness, and love--at a dreadful price she would
not pay. Such was the history of the ill-fated love of Immalee for a
being to whom mortal love was a boon forbidden."


_IV.--The Fate of Melmoth_


When Monçada had completed the tale of Immalee, he announced his
intention of describing how he had left the house of the Jewish doctor,
and what was his purpose in coming to Ireland. A time was fixed for the
continuation of the recital.

The night when Monçada prepared to resume his story was a dark and
stormy one. The two men drew close to the fire.

"Hush!" suddenly said Monçada.

John Melmoth listened, and half rose from his chair.

"We are watched!" he exclaimed.

At that moment the door opened, and a figure appeared at it. The figure
advanced slowly to the centre of the room. Monçada crossed himself, and
attempted to pray. John Melmoth, nailed to his chair, gazed upon the
form that stood before him--it was indeed Melmoth the Wanderer. But the
eyes were dim; those beacons lit by an infernal fire were no longer
visible.

"Mortals," said the Wanderer, in strange and solemn accents, "you are
here to talk of my destiny. That distiny is accomplished. Your ancestor
has come home," he continued, turning to John Melmoth. "If my crimes
have exceeded those of mortality, so will my punishment. And the time
for that punishment is come.

"It is a hundred and fifty years since I first probed forbidden secrets.
I have now to pay the penalty. None can participate in my destiny but
with his own consent. _None has consented._ It has been reported of me,
as you know, that I obtained from the enemy of souls a range of
existence beyond the period of mortality--a power to pass over space
with the swiftness of thought--to encounter perils unharmed, to
penetrate into dungeons, whose bolts were as flax and tow at my touch.
It has been said that this power was accorded to me that I might be
enabled to tempt wretches at their fearful hour of extremity with the
promise of deliverance and immunity on condition of their exchanging
situations with me.

"No one has ever changed destinies with Melmoth the Wanderer. _I have
traversed the world in search, and no one to gain that world would lose
his own soul!_" He paused. "Let me, if possible, obtain an hour's
repose. Ay, repose--sleep!" he repeated, answering the astonishment of
his hearers' looks. "My existence is still human!"

And a ghastly and derisive smile wandered over his features as he spoke.
John Melmoth and Monçada quitted the apartment, and the Wanderer,
sinking back in his chair slept profoundly.

The two men did not dare to approach the door until noon next day. The
Wanderer started up, and they saw with horror the change that had come
over him. The lines of extreme age were visible in every feature.

"My hour is come," he said. "Leave me alone. Whatever noises you may
hear in the course of the awful night that is approaching, come not
near, at peril of your lives. Be warned! Retire!"

They passed that day in intense anxiety, and at night had no thought of
repose. At midnight sounds of indescribable horror began to issue from
the Wanderer's apartment, shrieks of supplication, yells of blasphemy--
they could not tell which. The sounds suddenly ceased. The two men
hastened into the room. It was empty.

A small door leading to a back staircase was open, and near it they
discovered the trace of footsteps of a person who had been walking in
damp sand or clay. They traced the footsteps down the stairs, through
the garden, and across a field to a rock that overlooked the sea.

Through the furze that clothed this rock, there was a kind of track as
if a person had dragged his way, or been dragged, through it. The two
men gained the summit of the rock; the wide, waste, engulfing ocean was
beneath. On a crag below, something hung as floating to the blast.
Melmoth clambered down and caught it. It was the handkerchief which the
Wanderer had worn about his neck the preceding night. That was the last
trace of the Wanderer.

Melmoth and Monçada exchanged looks of silent horror, and returned
slowly home.

       *       *       *       *       *




DIEGO DE MENDOZA


Lazarillo de Tormes


     Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza's career was hardly of a kind
     that would be ordinarily associated with a lively romance of
     vagabondage. A grandee of high birth, an ambassador of the
     Emperor Charles V., an accomplished soldier and a learned
     historian--such was the creator of the hungry rogue Lazarillo,
     and the founder of the "picaresque" school of fiction, or the
     romance of roguery, which is not yet extinct. Don Diego de
     Mendoza, born early in 1503, was educated at the University of
     Salamanca, and spent most of the rest of his days in courts
     and camps. He died at Madrid in April 1575. Although written
     during Mendoza's college days, "Lazarillo de Tormes" did not
     appear until 1533, when it was published anonymously at
     Antwerp. During the following year it was reprinted at Bruges,
     but it fell under the ban of the Inquisition, and subsequent
     editions were considerably expurgated. Such was its popularity
     that it was continued by inferior authors after Mendoza's
     death.


_I.--The Blind Man_


You must know, in the first place, that my name is Lazarillo de Tormes,
and that I am the son of Thomas Gonzalez and Antonia Perez, natives of
Tejares, a village of Salamanca. My father was employed to superintend
the operations of a water-mill on the river Tormes, from which I took my
surname; and I had only reached my ninth year, when he was taken into
custody for administering certain copious, but injudicious, bleedings to
the sacks of customers. Being thrown out of employment by this disaster,
he joined an armament then preparing against the Moors in the quality of
mule-driver to a gentleman; and in that expedition he, along with his
master, finished his life and services together.

My widowed mother hired a small place in the city of Salamanca, and
opened an eating-house for the accommodation of students. It happened
some time afterwards that a blind man came to lodge at the house, and
thinking that I should do very well to lead him about, asked my mother
to part with me. He promised to receive me not as a servant, but as a
son; and thus I left Salamanca with my blind and aged master. He was as
keen as an eagle in his own calling. He knew prayers suitable for all
occasions, and could repeat them with a devout and humble countenance;
he could prognosticate; and with respect to the medicinal art, he would
tell you that Galen was an ignoramus compared with him. By these means
his profits were very considerable.

With all this, however, I am sorry to say that I never met with so
avaricious and so wicked an old curmudgeon; he allowed me almost daily
to die of hunger, without troubling himself about my necessities; and,
to say the truth, if I had not helped myself by means of a ready wit I
should have closed my account from sheer starvation.

The old man was accustomed to carry his food in a sort of linen
knapsack, secured at the mouth by a padlock; and in adding to or taking
from his store he used such vigilance that it was almost impossible to
cheat him of a single morsel. By means of a small rent, however, which I
slyly effected in one of the seams of the bag, I helped myself to the
choicest pieces.

Whenever we ate, he kept a jar of wine near him; and I adopted the
practice of bestowing on it sundry loving though stolen embraces. The
fervency of my attachment was soon discovered in the deficiency of the
wine, and the old man tied the jar to himself by the handle. I now
procured a large straw, which I dipped into the mouth of the jar; but
the old traitor must have heard me drink with it, for he placed the jar
between his knees, keeping the mouth closed with his hand.

I then bored a small hole in the bottom of the jar, and closed it very
delicately with wax. As the poor old man sat over the fire, with the jar
between his knees, the heat melted the wax, and I, placing my mouth
underneath, received the whole contents of the jar. The old boy was so
enraged and surprised that he thought the devil himself had been at
work. But he discovered the hole; and when next day I placed myself
under the jar, he brought the jar down with full force on my mouth.
Nearly all my teeth were broken, and my face was horribly cut with the
fragments of the broken vessel.

After this, he continually ill-treated me; on the slightest occasion he
would flog me without mercy. If any humane person interfered, he
immediately recounted the history of the jar; they would laugh, and say,
"Thrash him well, good man; he deserves it richly!" I determined to
revenge myself on the old tyrant, and seized an opportunity on a rainy
day when a stream was flowing down the street. I took him to a point
where the stream passed a stone pillar, told him that the water was
narrowest there, and invited him to jump. He jumped accordingly, and
gave his poor old pate such a smash against the pillar that he fell
senseless. I took to my heels as swiftly as possible; nor did I even
trouble to inquire what became of him.


_II.--The Priest_


The next day I went to a place called Maqueda, where, as it were in
punishment for my evil deeds, I fell in with a certain priest. I
accosted him for alms, when he inquired whether I knew how to assist at
mass. I answered that I did, which was true, for the blind man had
taught me. The priest, therefore, engaged me on the spot.

There is an old proverb which speaks of getting out of the frying-pan
into the fire, which was indeed my unhappy case in this change of
masters. This priest was, without exception, the most niggardly of all
miserable devils I have ever met with. He had a large old chest, the key
of which he always carried about him; and when the charity bread came
from the church, he would with his own hands deposit it in the chest and
turn the key. The only other eatable we had was a string of onions, of
which every fourth day I was allowed _one_. Five farthings' worth of
meat was his allowance for dinner and supper. It is true he divided the
broth with me; but my share of the meat I might have put in my eye
instead of my mouth, and have been none the worse for it; but sometimes,
by good luck, I got a little morsel of bread.

At the end of three weeks I was so exhausted with sheer hunger that I
could hardly stand on my legs. One day, when my miserable, covetous
thief of a master had gone out, an angel, in the likeness of a tinker,
knocked at the door, and inquired whether I had anything to mend.
Suddenly a light flashed upon me. "I have lost the key of this chest,"
said I, "can you fit it?" He drew forth a bunch of keys, fitted it, and
lo! the lid of the chest arose. "I have no money," I said to my
preserver, "but give me the key and help yourself." He helped himself,
and so, when he had gone, did I.

But it was not predestined for me that such good luck should continue
long; for on the third day I beheld the priest turning and counting the
loaves over and over again. At last he said, "If I were not assured of
the security of this chest, I should say that somebody had stolen my
bread; but from this day I shall count the loaves; there remain now
exactly nine and a piece."

"May nine curses light upon you, you miserable beggar!" said I to
myself. The utmost I dared do, for some days, was to nibble here and
there a morsel of the crust. At last it occurred to me that the chest
was old and in parts broken. Might it not be supposed that rats had made
an entrance? I therefore picked one loaf after another until I made up a
tolerable supply of crumbs, which I ate like so many sugar-plums.

The priest, when he returned, beheld the havoc with dismay.

"Confound the rats!" quoth he. "There is no keeping anything from them."
I fared well at dinner, for he pared off all the places which he
supposed the rats had nibbled at, and gave them to me, saying, "There,
eat that; rats are very clean animals." But I received another shock
when I beheld my tormentor nailing pieces of wood over all the holes in
the chest. All I could do was to scrape other holes with an old knife;
and so it went on until the priest set a trap for the rats, baiting it
with bits of cheese that he begged from his neighbours. I did not nibble
my bread with less relish because I added thereto the bait from the
rat-trap. The priest, almost beside himself with astonishment at finding
the bread nibbled, the bait gone, and no rat in the trap, consulted his
neighbours, who suggested, to his great alarm, that the thief must be a
snake.

For security, I kept my precious key in my mouth--which I could do
without inconvenience, as I had been in the habit of carrying in my
mouth the coins I had stolen from my former blind master. But one night,
when I was fast asleep, it was decreed by an evil destiny that the key
should be placed in such a position in my mouth that my breath caused a
loud whistling noise. My master concluded that this must be the hissing
of the snake; he arose and stole with a club in his hand towards the
place whence the sound proceeded; then, lifting the club, he discharged
with all his force a blow on my unfortunate head. When he had fetched a
light, he found me moaning, with the tell-tale key protruding from my
mouth.

"Thank God," he exclaimed, "that the rats and snakes which have so long
devoured my substance are at last discovered!"

As soon as my wounds were healed, he turned me out of his door as if I
had been in league with the evil one.


_III.--The Poor Gentleman_


By the assistance of some kind people I made my way to Toledo, where I
sought my living by begging from door to door. But one day I encountered
a certain esquire; he was well dressed, and walked with an air of ease
and consequence. "Are you seeking a master, my boy?" he said. I replied
that I was, and he bade me follow him.

He led me through a dark and dismal entry to a house absolutely bare of
furniture; and the hopes I had formed when he engaged me were further
depressed when he told me that he had already breakfasted, and that it
was not his custom to eat again till the evening. Disconsolately I began
to eat some crusts that I had about me.

"Come here, boy," said my master. "What are you eating?" I showed him
the bread. "Upon my life, but this seems exceedingly nice bread," he
exclaimed; and seizing the largest piece, he attacked it fiercely.

When night came on, and I was expecting supper, my master said, "The
market is distant, and the city abounds with rogues; we had better pass
the night as we can, and to-morrow we will fare better. Nothing will
ensure length of life so much as eating little."

"Then truly," said I to myself in despair, "I shall never die."

I spent the night miserably on a hard cane bedstead without a mattress.
In the morning my master arose, washed his hands and face, dried them on
his garments for want of a towel, and then carefully dressed himself,
with my assistance. Having girded on his sword, he went forth to hear
mass, without saying a word about breakfast. "Who would believe," I
said, observing his erect bearing and air of gentility as he walked up
the street, "that such a fine gentleman had passed the whole of
yesterday without any other food than a morsel of bread? How many are
there in this world who voluntarily suffer more for their false idea of
honour, than they would undergo for their hopes of an hereafter!"

The day advanced, and my master did not return; my hopes of dinner
disappeared like those of breakfast. In desperation, I went out begging,
and such was the talent I had acquired in this art that I came back with
four pounds of bread, a piece of cow-heel, and some tripe. I found my
master at home, and he did not disapprove of what I had done.

"It is much better," said he, "to ask, for the love of God, than to
steal. I only charge you on no account to say you live with me."

When I sat down to supper, my poor master eyed me so longingly that I
resolved to invite him to partake of my repast; yet I wondered whether
he would take it amiss if I did so. But my wishes towards him were soon
gratified.

"Ah!" said he; "cow-heel is delicious. There is nothing I am more fond
of."

"Then taste it, sir," said I, "and try whether this is as good as you
have eaten." Presently he was grinding the food as ravenously as a
greyhound.

In this manner we passed eight or ten days, my master taking the air
every day with the most perfect ease of a man of fashion, and returning
home to feast on the contributions of the charitable, levied by poor
Lazaro. Whereas my former masters declined to feed me, this one expected
that I should maintain him. But I was much more sorry for him than angry
at him, and with all his poverty I found greater satisfaction in serving
him than either of the others.

At length a man came to demand the rent, which of course my master could
not pay. He answered the man very courteously that he was going out to
change a piece of gold. But this time he made his exit for good. Next
morning the man came to seize my master's effects, and on finding there
were none, he had me arrested. But I was soon found to be innocent, and
released. Thus did I lose my third and poorest master.


_IV.--The Dealer in Indulgences_


My fourth master was a holy friar, eager in the pursuit of every kind of
secular business and amusement. He kept me so incessantly on the trot
that I could not endure it, so I took my leave of him without asking it.

The next master that fortune threw in my way was a bulero, or dealer in
papal indulgences, one of the cleverest and most impudent rogues that I
have ever seen. He practised all manner of deceit, and resorted to the
most subtle inventions to gain his end. A regular account of his
artifices would fill a volume; but I will only recount a little
manoeuvre which will give you some idea of his genius and invention.

He had preached two or three days at a place near Toledo, but found his
indulgences go off but slowly. Being at his wits' end what to do, he
invited the people to the church next morning to take his farewell.
After supper at the inn that evening, he and the alguazil quarrelled and
began to revile each other, my master calling the alguazil a thief, the
alguazil declaring that the bulero was an impostor, and that his
indulgences were forged. Peace was not restored until the alguazil had
been taken away to another inn.

Next morning, during my master's farewell sermon, the alguazil entered
the church and publicly repeated his charge, that the indulgences were
forged. Whereupon my devout master threw himself on his knees in the
pulpit, and exclaimed: "O Lord, Thou knowest how cruelly I am
calumniated! I pray Thee, therefore, to show by a miracle the whole
truth as to this matter. If I deal in iniquity may this pulpit sink with
me seven fathoms below the earth, but if what is said be false let the
author of the calumny be punished, so that all present may be convinced
of his malice."

Hardly had he finished his prayer when the alguazil fell down, foaming
at the mouth, and rolled about in the utmost apparent agony. At this
wonderful interposition of Providence, there was a general clamour in
the church, and some terrified people implored my sainted master, who
was kneeling in the pulpit, with his eyes towards heaven, to intercede
for the poor wretch. He replied that no favour should be sought for one
whom God had chastised, but that as we were bidden to return good for
evil, he would try to obtain pardon for the unhappy man. Desiring the
congregation to pray for the sinner, he commanded the holy bull to be
placed on the alguazil's head. Gradually the sufferer was restored, and
fell at the holy commissary's feet, imploring his pardon, which was
granted with benevolent words of comfort.

Great now was the demand for indulgences; people came flocking from all
parts, so that no sermons were necessary in the church to convince them
of the benefits likely to result to the purchasers. I must confess that
I was deceived at the time, but hearing the merriment which it afforded
to the holy commissary and the alguazil, I began to suspect that it
originated in the fertile brain of my master, and from that time I
ceased to be a child of grace. For, I argued, "If I, being an
eye-witness to such an imposition, could almost believe it, how many
more, amongst this poor innocent people, must be imposed on by these
robbers?"

On leaving the bulero I entered the service of a chaplain, which was the
first step I had yet made towards attaining an easy life, for I had here
a mouthful at will. Having bidden the chaplain farewell, I attached
myself to an alguazil. But I did not long continue in the train of
justice; it pleased Heaven to enlighten and put me into a much better
way, for certain gentlemen procured me an office under government. This
I yet keep, and flourish in it, with the permission of God and every
good customer. In fact, my charge is that of making public proclamation
of the wine which is sold at auctions, etc.; of bearing those company
who suffer persecution for justice's sake, and publishing to the world,
with a loud voice, their faults.

About this time the arch-priest of Salvador, to whom I was introduced,
and who was under obligations to me for crying his wine, showed his
sense of it by uniting me with one of his own domestics. About this time
I was at the top of the ladder, and enjoyed all kinds of good fortune.
This happy state I conceived would continue; but fortune soon began to
show another aspect, and a fresh series of miseries and difficulties
followed her altered looks--troubles which it would be too cruel a task
for me to have to recount.

       *       *       *       *       *




DMITRI MEREJKOWSKI


The Death of the Gods


     Among Russian writers whose works have achieved European
     reputation, prominence must be given to Dmitri Merejkowski.
     The son of a court official, Merejkowski was born in 1866, and
     began to write verses at the age of fifteen, his first volume
     of poems appearing in 1888. Then, nine years later, came the
     first of his great trilogy, "The Death of the Gods," which is
     continued in "The Resurrection of the Gods," and completed by
     "Anti-Christ," the last-named having for its central character
     the figure of Peter the Great, the creator of modern Russia.
     "The Death of the Gods," by many considered the finest of the
     three, is a vivid picture of the times of the Roman Emperor
     Julian, setting forth the doctrine that the pagan and the
     Christian elements in human nature are equally legitimate and
     sacred, a doctrine which, in its various guises, runs through
     the trilogy.


_I.--Julian's Boyhood_


All was dark in the great palace at Macellum, an ancient residence of
Cappadocian princes. Here dwelt Julian and Gallus, the youthful cousins
of the reigning Emperor Constantius, and the nephews of Constantine the
Great. They were the last representatives of the hapless house of the
Flavii. Their father, Julian Constantius, brother of Constantine, was
murdered by the orders of Constantius on his accession to the throne,
and the two orphans lived in constant fear of death.

Julian was not asleep. He listened to the regular breathing of his
brother, who slept near him on a more comfortable bed, and to the heavy
snore of his tutor Mardonius in the next room. Suddenly the door of the
secret staircase opened softly, and a bright light dazzled Julian.
Labda, an old slave, entered, carrying a metal lamp in her hand.

The old woman, who loved Julian, and held him to be the true successor
of Constantine the Great, placed the lamp in a stone niche above his
head, and produced honey cakes for him to eat. Then she blessed him with
the sign of the cross and disappeared.

A heavy slumber fell on Julian, and then he awoke full of fears. He sat
up on his bed, and listened in the silence to the beatings of his own
heart. Suddenly, voices and steps resounded from room to room. Then the
steps approached, the voices became distinct.

The boy called out, "Gallus, wake up! Mardonius, can't you hear
something?"

Gallus awoke, and at the same moment old Mardonius, with his grey hair
all dishevelled, entered and rushed towards the secret door.

"The soldiers of the Prefect! ... Dress! ... We must fly! ..." he
exclaimed.

Mardonius was too late; all he could do was to draw an old sword and
stand in warlike attitude before the door, brandishing his weapon. The
centurion, who was drunk, promptly seized him by the throat and threw
him out of the way, and the Roman legionaries entered.

"In the name of the most orthodox and blessed Augustus Constantius
Imperator! I, Marcus Scuda, Tribune of the Fretensian Legion, take under
my safeguard Julian and Gallus, sons of the Patrician Julius Flavius."

It was Scuda's plan to gain favour with his superiors by boldly carrying
off the lads and sending them down to his barracks at Caesarea. There
were rumours from time to time of their escaping from Macellum, and
Scuda knew, the emperor's fear lest these possible claimants for the
throne should gain a following among the soldiers of the people. At
Caesarea they would be in safe custody.

For the first time he gazed upon Gallus and Julian. The former, with his
indolent and listless blue eyes and flaxen hair, trembled and blinked,
his eyelids heavy with sleep, and crossed himself. The latter, thin,
sickly, and pale, with large shining eyes, stared at Scuda fixedly, and
shook with bridled rage. In his right hand, hidden by the panther skin
of his bed, which he had flung over his shoulder, he gripped the handle
of a Persian dagger given him by Labda; it was tipped with the keenest
of poisons.

A wild chance of safety suddenly occurred to Mardonius. Throwing aside
his sword, he caught hold of the tribune's mantle, and shrieked out, "Do
you know what you're doing, rascals? How dare you insult an envoy of
Constantius? It is I who am charged to conduct these two princes to
court. The august emperor has restored them to his favour. Here is the
order from Constantinople!"

"What is he saying? What order is it?" Scuda waited in perplexity while
Mardonius, after hunting in a drawer, pulled out a roll of parchment,
and presented it to the tribune. Scuda saw the name of the emperor, and
read the first lines, without remarking the date of the document. At the
sight of the great imperial seal of dark green wax he became frightened.

"Pardon, there is some mistake," said the tribune humbly. "Don't ruin
us! We are all brothers and fellow-sinners! I beseech you in the name of
Christ!"

"I know what acts you commit in the name of Christ. Away with you!
Begone at once!" screamed Mardonius. The tribune gave the order to
retire, and only when the sound of the steps dying away assured
Mardonius that all peril was over did the old man forget his tutorial
dignity. A wild fit of laughter seized him, and he began to dance.

"Children, children!" he cried gleefully. "Glory to Hermes! We've done
them cleverly! That edict was annulled three years ago! Ah, the idiots,
the idiots!"

At daybreak Julian fell into a deep sleep.


_II.--Julian the Emperor_


Gallus had fallen at the hands of the imperial executioner, and Julian
had been banished to the army in Gaul. Constantius hoped to get news of
the defeat and death of Julian, and was horribly disappointed when
nothing was heard but tidings of victory.

Julian, successful in arms and worshipped by his soldiers, became more
and more convinced that the old Olympian gods were protecting him and
advancing his cause, and only for prudential reasons did he continue to
attend Christian churches. In his heart he abhorred the crucified
Galilean God of the Christians, and longed for the restoration of the
old worship of Apollo and the gods of Greece and Rome.

More than two years after the victory of Argentoratum, when Julian had
delivered all Gaul from the barbarians, he received an important letter
from the Emperor Constantius.

Each new victory in Gaul had maddened the soul of Constantius, and
smitten his vanity to the quick. He writhed with jealousy, and grew thin
and sleepless and sick. At the same time he sustained defeat after
defeat in his own campaign in Asia against the Persians. Musing, during
nights of insomnia, the emperor blamed himself for having let Julian
live.

Finally, Constantius decided to rob Julian of his best soldiers, and
then, by gradually disarming him, to draw him into his toils and deal
him the mortal blow.

With this intention he sent a letter to Julian by the tribune Decensius,
commanding him to select the most trusted legions, namely, the Heruli,
Batavians, and Celts, and to dispatch them into Asia for the emperor's
own use. Each remaining legion was also to be deflowered of its three
hundred bravest warriors, and Julian's transport crippled of the pick of
the porters and baggage carriers.

Julian at once warned Decensius, and proved to him that rebellion was
inevitable among the savage legions raised in Gaul, who would almost
certainly prefer to die rather than quit their native soil. But
Decensius took no account of these warnings.

On the departure of the first cohorts, the soldiers, hitherto only
restrained by Julian's stern and wise discipline, became excited and
tumultuous. Savage murmurs ran through the crowd. The cries came nearer;
wild agitation seized the garrison.

"What has happened?" asked a veteran.

"Twenty soldiers have been beaten to death!"

"Twenty! No; a hundred!"

A legionary, with torn clothes and terrified appearance, rushed into the
crowd, shouting, "Comrades, quick to the palace! Quick! Julian's just
been beheaded!"

These words kindled the long-smouldering flame. Everyone began to shout,
"Where is the envoy from the Emperor Constantius?"

"Down with the envoy!"

"Down with the emperor!"

Another mob swept by the barracks, calling out, "Glory to the Emperor
Julian! Glory to Augustus Julian!"

Then the cohorts, who had marched out the night before, mutinied, and
were soon seen returning. The crowd grew thicker and thicker, like a
raging flood.

"To the palace! To the palace!" the cry was raised. "Let us make Julian
emperor! Let us crown him with the diadem!"

Foreseeing the revolt, Julian had not left his quarters nor shown
himself to the soldiers, but for two days and two nights had waited for
a sign.

The indistinct cries of the mutineers came to him, borne faintly upon
the wind.

A servant entered, and announced that an old man from Athens desired to
see the Caesar on urgent business. Julian ran to meet the newcomer; it
was the high-priest of the mysteries of Eleusis, whom he had impatiently
expected.

"Caesar," said the old man, "be not hasty. Decide nothing to-night; wait
for the morrow, the gods are silent."

Outside could be heard the noise of soldiers pouring into the courtyard,
and thrilling the old palace with their cries. The die was cast, Julian
put on his armour, warcloak, and helmet, buckled on his sword, and ran
down the principal staircase to the main entrance. In a moment the crowd
felt his supremacy; in action his will never vacillated; at his first
gesture the mob was silenced.

Julian spoke to the soldiers, asked them to restore order, and declared
that he would neither abandon them nor permit them to be taken from
Gaul.

"Down with Constantius!" cried the legionaries. "Thou art our emperor!
Glory to Augustus Julian the Invincible!"

Admirably did Julian affect surprise, lowering his eyes, and turning
aside his head with a deprecating gesture of his lifted palms.

The shouts redoubled. "Silence!" exclaimed Julian, striding towards the
crowd. "Do you think that I can betray my sovereign? Are we not sworn?"

The soldiers seized his hands, and many, falling at his feet, kissed
them, weeping and crying, "We are willing to die for you! Have pity on
us; be our emperor!"

With an effort that might well have been thought sincere, Julian
answered, "My children, my dear comrades, I am yours in life and in
death! I can refuse you nothing!"

A standard-bearer pulled from his neck the metal chain denoting his
rank, and Julian wound it twice around his own neck. This chain made him
Emperor of Rome.

"Hoist him on a shield," shouted the soldiery. A round buckler was
tendered. Hundreds of arms heaved the emperor. He saw a sea of helmeted
heads, and heard, like the rolling of thunder, the exultant cry, "Glory
to Julian, the divine Augustus!"

It seemed the will of destiny.


_III.--The Worship of Apollo_


Constantius was dead, and Julian sole emperor of Rome.

Before all the army the golden cross had been wrenched from the imperial
standard, and a little silver statue of the sun-god, Mithra-Helios, had
been soldered to the staff of the Labarum.

One of the men in the front rank uttered a single word so distinctly
that Julian heard it, "Anti-Christ!"

Toleration was promised to the Christians, but Julian organised
processions in honour of the Olympian gods, and encouraged in every way
the return of the old and dying worship.

       *       *       *       *       *

Five miles from Antioch stood the celebrated wood of Daphne, consecrated
to Apollo. A temple had been built there, where every year the praises
of the sun-god were celebrated.

Julian, without telling anyone of his intention, quitted Antioch at
daybreak. He wished to find out for himself whether the inhabitants
remembered the ancient sacred feast. All along the road he mused on the
solemnity, hoping to see lads and maidens going up the steps of the
temple, the crowd of the faithful, the choirs, and the smoke of incense.

Presently the columns and pediments of the temple shone through the
wood, but not a worshipper yet had Julian encountered. At last he saw a
boy of twelve years old, on a path overgrown with wild hyacinth.

"Do you know, child, where are the sacrificers and the people?" Julian
asked.

The child made no answer.

"Listen, little one. Can you not lead me to the priest of Apollo?"

The boy put a finger to his lips and then to both his ears, and shook
his head gravely. Suddenly he pointed out to Julian an old man, clothed
in a patched and tattered tunic, and Julian recognised a temple priest.
The weak and broken old man stumbled along in drunken fashion, carrying
a large basket and laughing and mumbling to himself as he went. He was
red-nosed, and his watery and short-sighted eyes had an expression of
childlike benevolence.

"The priest of Apollo?" asked Julian.

"I am he. I am called Gorgius. What do you want, good man?"

He smelt strongly of wine. Julian thought his behaviour indecent.

"You seem to be drunk, old man!"

Gorgius, in no wise dismayed, put down his basket and rubbed his bald
head.

"Drunk? I don't think so. But I may have had four or five cups in honour
of the celebration; and, as to that, I drink more through sorrow than
mirth. May the Olympians have you in their keeping!"

"Where are the victims?" asked Julian. "Have many people been sent from
Antioch? Are the choirs ready?"

"Victims! Small thanks for victims! Many's the long year, my brother,
since we saw that kind of thing. Not since the time of Constantine. It
is all over--done for! Men have forgotten the gods. We don't even get a
handful of wheat to make a cake; not a grain of incense, not a drop of
oil for the lamps. There's nothing for it but to go to bed and die....
The monks have taken everything.... Our tale is told.... And you say
'don't drink.' But it's hard not to drink when one suffers. If I didn't
drink I should have hanged myself long ago."

"And no one has come from Antioch for this great feast day?" asked
Julian.

"None but you, my son. I am the priest, you are the people! Together we
will offer the victim to the god. It is my own offering. We've eaten
little for three days, this lad and I, to save the necessary money.
Look; it is a sacred bird!"

He raised the lid of the basket. A tethered goose slid out its head,
cackling and trying to escape.

"Have you dwelt long in this temple; and is this lad your son?"
questioned Julian.

"For forty years, and perhaps longer; but I have neither relatives nor
friends. This child helps me at the hour of sacrifice. His mother was
the great sibyl Diotima, who lived here, and it is said that he is the
son of a god," said Gorgius.

"A deaf mute the son of a god?" murmured the emperor, surprised.

"In times like ours if the son of a god and a sibyl were not a deaf mute
he would die of grief," said Gorgius.

"One thing more I want to ask you," said Julian. "Have you ever heard
that the Emperor Julian desired to restore the worship of the old gods?"

"Yes, but ... what can he do, poor man? He will not succeed. I tell
you--all's over. Once I sailed in a ship near Thessalonica, and saw
Mount Olympus. I mused and was full of emotion at beholding the
dwellings of the gods; and a scoffing old man told me that travellers
had climbed Olympus, and seen that it was an ordinary mountain, with
only snow and ice and stones on it. I have remembered those words all my
life. My son, all is over; Olympus is deserted. The gods have grown
weary and have departed. But the sun is up, the sacrifice must be
performed. Come!"

They passed into the temple alone.

From behind the trees came the sound of voices, a procession of monks
chanting psalms. In the very neighbourhood of Apollo's temple a tomb had
been built in honour of a Christian martyr.


_IV.--"Thou Hast Conquered, Galilean!"_


At the beginning of spring Julian quitted Antioch for a Persian campaign
with an army of sixty-five thousand men.

"Warriors, my bravest of the brave," said Julian, addressing his troops
at the outset, "remember the destiny of the world is in our hands. We
are going to restore the old greatness of Rome! Steel your hearts, be
ready for any fate. There is to be no turning back, I shall be at your
head, on horseback or on foot, taking all dangers and toils with the
humblest among you; because, henceforth, you are no longer my servants,
but my children and my friends. Courage then, my comrades; and remember
that the strong are always conquerors!"

He stretched his sword, with a smile, toward the distant horizon. The
soldiers, in unison, held up their bucklers, shouting in rapture,
"Glory, glory to conquering Caesar!"

But the campaign so bravely begun ended in treachery and disaster.

At the end of July, when the Roman army was in steady retreat, came the
last battle with the Persians. The emperor looked for a miracle in this
battle, the victory which would give him such renown and power that the
Galileans could no longer resist; but it was not till the close of the
day that the ranks of the enemy were broken. Then a cry of triumph came
from Julian's lips. He galloped ahead, pursuing the fugitives, not
perceiving that he was far in advance of his main body. A few bodyguards
surrounded the Caesar, among them old General Victor. This old man,
though wounded, was unconscious of his hurt, not quitting the emperor's
side, and shielding him time after time from mortal blows. He knew that
it was as dangerous to approach a fleeing enemy as to enter a falling
building.

"Take heed, Caesar!" he shouted. "Put on this mail of mine!" But Julian
heard him not, and still rode on, as if he, unsupported, unarmed, and
terrible, were hunting his countless enemies by glance and gesture only
from the field.

Suddenly a lance, aimed by a flying Saracen who had wheeled round,
hissed, and grazing the skin of the emperor's right hand, glanced over
the ribs, and buried itself in his body. Julian thought the wound a
slight one, and seizing the double-edged barb to withdraw it, cut his
fingers. Blood gushed out, Julian uttered a cry, flung his head back,
and slid from his horse into the arms of the guard.

They carried the emperor into his tent, and laid him on his camp-bed.
Still in a swoon, he groaned from time to time. Oribazius, the
physician, drew out the iron lance-head, and washed and bound up the
deep wound. By a look Victor asked if any hope remained, and Oribazius
sadly shook his head. After the dressing of the wound Julian sighed and
opened his eyes.

Hearing the distant noise of battle, he remembered all, and with an
effort, rose upon his bed. His soul was struggling against death. Slowly
he tottered to his feet.

"I must be with them to the end.... You see, I am able-bodied still....
Quick, give me my sword, buckler, horse!"

Victor gave him the shield and sword. Julian took them, and made a few
unsteady steps, like a child learning to walk. The wound re-opened; he
let fall his sword and shield, sank into the arms of Oribazius and
Victor, and looking up, cried contemptuously, "All is over! Thou hast
conquered, Galilean!" And making no further resistance, he gave himself
up to his friends, and was laid on the bed.

At night he was in delirium.

"One must conquer ... reason must.... Socrates died like a god.... I
will not believe!... What do you want from me?... Thy love is more
terrible than death.... I want sunlight, the golden sun!"

At dawn the sick man lay calm, and the delirium had left him.

"Call the generals--I must speak."

The generals came in, and the curtain of the tent was raised so that the
fresh air of the morning might blow on the face of the dying. The
entrance faced east, and the view to the horizon was unbroken.

"Listen, friends," Julian began, and his voice was low, but clear. "My
hour is come, and like an honest debtor, I am not sorry to give back my
life to nature, and in my soul is neither pain nor fear. I have tried to
keep my soul stainless; I have aspired to ends not ignoble. Most of our
earthly affairs are in the hands of destiny. We must not resist her. Let
the Galileans triumph. We shall conquer later on!"

The morning clouds were growing red, and the first beam of the sun
washed over the rim of the horizon. The dying man held his face towards
the light, with closed eyes.

Then his head fell back, and the last murmur came from his half-open
lips, "Helios! Receive me unto thyself!"

       *       *       *       *       *




PROSPER MÉRIMÉE


Carmen


     Novelist, archaeologist, essayist, and in all three
     departments one of the greatest masters of French style of his
     century, Prosper Mérimée was born in Paris on September 23,
     1803. The son of a painter, Mérimée was intended for the law,
     but at the age of twenty-two achieved fame as the author of a
     number of plays purporting to be translations from the
     Spanish. From that time until his death at Cannes on September
     23, 1870, a brilliant series of plays, essays, novels, and
     historical and archaeological works poured from his fertile
     pen. Altogether he wrote about a score of tales, and it is on
     these and on his "Letters to an Unknown" that Mérimée's fame
     depends. His first story to win universal recognition was
     "Colombo," in 1830. Seventeen years later appeared his
     "Carmen, the Power of Love," of which Taine, in his celebrated
     essay on the work, says, "Many dissertations on our primitive
     savage methods, many knowing treatises like Schopenhauer's on
     the metaphysics of love and death, cannot compare to the
     hundred pages of 'Carmen.'"


_I.--I Meet Don José_


One day, wandering in the higher part of the plain of Cachena, near
Cordova, harassed with fatigue, dying of thirst, burned by an overhead
sun, I perceived, at some distance from the path I was following, a
little green lawn dotted with rushes and reeds. It proclaimed to me the
neighbourhood of a spring, and I saw that a brook issued from a narrow
gorge between two lofty spurs of the Sierra de Cabra.

At the mouth of the gorge my horse neighed, and another horse that I did
not see answered immediately. A hundred steps farther, and the gorge,
suddenly widening, revealed a sort of natural circus, shaded by the
cliffs which surrounded it. It was impossible to light upon a place
which promised a pleasanter halt to the traveller.

But the honour of discovering this beautiful spot did not belong to me.
A man was resting there already, and it my entrance, he had risen and
approached his horse. He was a young fellow of medium height, but robust
appearance, with a gloomy and haughty air. In one hand he held his
horse's halter, in the other a brass blunderbuss. The fierce air of the
man somewhat surprised me, but not having seen any robbers I no longer
believed in them. My guide Antonio, however, who came up behind me,
showed evident signs of terror, and drew near very much against his
will.

I stretched myself on the grass, drew out my cigar-case, and asked the
man with the blunderbuss if he had a tinder-box on him. The unknown,
without speaking, produced his tinder-box, and hastened to strike a
light for me. In return I gave him one of my best Havanas, for which he
thanked me with an inclination of the head.

In Spain a cigar given and received establishes relations of
hospitality, like the sharing of bread and salt in the East. My unknown
now proved more talkative than I had expected. He seemed half famished,
and devoured some slices of excellent ham, which I had put in my guide's
knapsack, wolfishly. When I mentioned I was going to the Venta del
Cuervo for the night he offered to accompany me, and I accepted
willingly.

As we rode along Antonio endeavoured to attract my attention by
mysterious signs, but I took no notice. Doubtless my companion was a
smuggler, or a robber. What did it matter to me? I knew I had nothing to
fear from a man who had eaten and smoked with me.

We arrived at the venta, which was one of the most wretched I had yet
come across. An old woman opened the door, and on seeing my companion,
exclaimed, "Ah, Señor Don José!"

Don José frowned and raised his hand, and the old woman was silent at
once.

The supper was better than I expected, and after supper Don José played
the mandoline and sang some melancholy songs. My guide decided to pass
the night in the stable, but Don José and I stretched ourselves on mule
cloths on the floor.

Very disagreeable itchings snatched me from my first nap, and drove me
to a wooden bench outside the door. I was about to close my eyes for the
second time, when, to my surprise, I saw Antonio leading a horse. He
stopped on seeing me, and said anxiously, "Where is he?"

"In the venta; he is sleeping. He is not afraid of the fleas. Why are
you taking away my horse?"

I then observed that, in order to prevent any noise, Antonio had
carefully wrapped the animal's feet in the remains of an old sack.

"Hush!" said Antonio. "That man there is José Navarro, the most famous
bandit of Andalusia. There are two hundred ducats for whoever gives him
up. I know a post of lancers a league and a half from here, and before
it is day I will bring some of them here."

"What harm has the poor man done you that you denounce him?" said I.

"I am a poor wretch, sir!" was all Antonio could say. "Two hundred
ducats are not to be lost, especially when it is a matter of delivering
the country from such vermin."

My threats and requests were alike unavailing. Antonio was in the
saddle, he set spurs to his horse after freeing its feet from the rags,
and was soon lost to sight in the darkness.

I was very much annoyed with my guide, and somewhat uneasy; but quickly
making up my mind, returned to the inn, and shook Don José to awaken
him.

"Would you be very pleased to see half a dozen lancers arrive here?" I
said.

He leapt to his feet.

"Ah, your guide has betrayed me! Your guide! I had suspected him. Adieu,
sir. God repay you the service I am in your debt for. I am not quite as
bad as you think. Yes, there is still something in me deserving the pity
of a gentleman. Adieu!"

He ran to the stable, and some minutes later I heard him galloping into
the fields.

As for me, I asked myself if I had been right in saving a robber,
perhaps a murderer, from the gallows only because I had eaten ham and
rice and smoked with him.

I think Antonio cherished a grudge against me; but, nevertheless, we
parted good friends at Cordova.


_II.--My Experience with Carmen_


I passed some days at Cordova searching for a certain manuscript in the
Dominican's library.

One evening I was leaning on the parapet of the quay, smoking, when a
woman came up the flight of stairs leading to the river and sat down
beside me. She was simply dressed, all in black, and we fell into
conversation.

On my taking out my repeater watch she was greatly astonished.

"What inventions they have among you foreigners!"

Then she told me she was a gipsy, and proposed to tell my fortune.

"Have you heard people speak of La Carmencita?" she added. "That is me!"

"Good!" I said to myself. "Last week I supped with a highway robber; now
to-day I will eat ices with a gipsy. When travelling one must see
everything."

With that I escorted the Señorita Carmen to a café, and we had ices.

My gipsy had a strange and wild beauty, a face which astonished at
first, but which one could not forget. Her eyes, in particular, had an
expression, at once loving and fierce, that I have found in no human
face since.

It would have been ridiculous to have had my fortune told in a public
café and I begged the fair sorceress to allow me to accompany her to her
domicile. She at once consented, but insisted on seeing my watch again.

"Is it really of gold?" she said, examining it with great attention.

Night had set in, and most of the shops were closed and the streets
almost deserted as we crossed the Guadalquiver bridge, and went on to
the outskirts of the town.

The house we entered was by no means a palace. A child opened the door,
and disappeared when the gipsy said some words to it in the Romany
tongue.

Then the gipsy produced some cards, a magnet, a dried chameleon, and
other things necessary for her art. She told me to cross my left hand
with a piece of money, and the magic ceremonies began. It was evident to
me that she was no half-sorceress.

Unfortunately, we were soon disturbed. Of a sudden the door opened
violently, and a man entered, who denounced the gipsy in a manner far
from polite.

I at once recognised my friend Don José, and greeted him cheerfully.

"The same as ever! This will have an end," he said turning fiercely to
the gipsy, who now started talking to him in her own language. She grew
animated as she spoke, and her eyes became terrible. It appeared to me
she was urging him warmly to do something at which he hesitated. I think
I understood what it was only too well from seeing her quickly pass and
repass her little hand under her chin. There was some question of a
throat to cut, and I had a suspicion that the throat was mine.

Don José only answered with two or three words in a sharp tone, and the
gipsy, casting a look of deep contempt at him, retired to a corner of
the room, and taking an orange, peeled it and began to eat it.

Don José took my arm, opened the door, and led me into the street. We
walked some way together in the profoundest silence. Then, stretching
out his hand, "Keep straight on," he Said, "and you will find the
bridge."

With that he turned his back on me, and walked rapidly away. I returned
to my inn a little crestfallen and depressed. Worst of all was that, as
I was undressing, I discovered my watch was missing.

I departed for Seville next day, and after several months of rambling in
Andalusia, was once more back in Cordova, on my way to Madrid.

The good fathers at the Dominican convent received me with open arms.

"Your watch has been found again, and will be returned to you," one of
them told me. "The rascal is in gaol, and is to be executed the day
after to-morrow. He is known in the country under the name of José
Navarro, and he is a man to be seen."

I went to see the prisoner, and took him some cigars. At first he
shrugged his shoulders and received me coldly, but I saw him again on
the morrow, and passed a part of the day with him. It was from his mouth
I learnt the sad adventures of his life.


_III.--Don José's Story_


"I was born," he said, "at Elizondo, and my name--Don José
Lizzarrabengoa--will tell you that I am Basque, and an old Christian. If
I take the _don_, it is because I have the right to do so. One day when
I had been playing tennis with a lad from Alava I won, and he picked a
quarrel with me. We took our iron-tipped sticks, and fought, and again I
had the advantage; but it forced me to quit the country. I met some
dragoons, and enlisted in the Almanza regiment of cavalry. Soon I became
a corporal, and they were under promise to make me sergeant when, to my
misfortune, I was put on guard at the tobacco factory at Seville.

"I was young then, and I was always thinking of my native country, and
was afraid of the Andalusian young women and their jesting ways. But one
Friday--I shall never forget it--when I was on duty, I heard people
saying, 'Here's the gipsy.' And, looking up, I saw her for the first
time. I saw that Carmen whom you know, in whose house I met you some
months ago.

"She made some joke at me as she passed into the factory, and flipped a
cassia flower just between my eyes. When she had gone, I picked it up
and put it carefully in my pocket. First piece of folly!

"A few hours afterwards I was ordered to take two of my men into the
factory. There had been a quarrel, and Carmen had slashed another woman
with two terrible cuts of her knife across the face. The case was clear.
I took Carmen by the arm, and bade her follow me. At the guard-house the
sergeant said it was serious, and that she must be taken to prison. I
placed her between two dragoons, and, walking behind, we set out for the
town.

"At first the gipsy kept silence, but presently she turned to me, and
said softly, 'You are taking me to prison! Alas! what will become of me?
Have pity on me, Mr. Officer! You are so young, so good-looking! Let me
escape, and I will give you a piece of the loadstone which will make all
women love you.'

"I answered her as seriously as I could that the order was to take her
to prison, and that there was no help for it.

"My accent told her I was from the Basque province, and she began to
speak to me in my native tongue. Gipsies, you know, sir, speak all
languages. She told me she had been carried off by gipsies from Navarro,
and was working at the factory in order to earn enough to return home to
her poor mother. Would I do nothing for a country-woman? The Spanish
women at the factory had slandered her native place.

"It was all lies, sir. She always lied. But I believed her at the time.

"'If I pushed you and you fell,' she resumed, in Basque, 'it would not
be these two conscripts who would hold me.'

"I forgot my order and everything, and said, "'Very well, my country-
woman; and may our Lady of the Mountain be your aid!'

"Suddenly Carmen turned round and dealt me a blow on the chest with her
fist. I let myself fall backwards on purpose, and, with one bound, she
leapt over me, and started to run. There was no risk of overtaking her
with our spurs, our sabres, and our lances. The prisoner disappeared in
no time, and all the women-folk in the quarter favoured her escape, and
made fun of us, pointing out the wrong road on purpose. We had to return
at last to the guard-house without a receipt from the governor of the
prison.

"The result of this was I was degraded and sent to prison for a month.
Farewell to the sergeant's stripes, I thought.

"One day in prison the jailor entered, and gave me a special loaf of
bread.

"'Here,' he said, 'see what your cousin has sent you.'

"I was astonished, for I had no cousin in Seville, and when I broke the
loaf I found a small file and a gold piece inside it. No doubt then, it
was a present from Carmen, for a gipsy would set fire to a town to
escape a day's imprisonment, and I was touched by this mark of
remembrance.

"But I served my sentence, and, on coming out, was put on sentry outside
the colonel's door, like a common soldier. It was a terrible
humiliation.

"While I was on duty I saw Carmen again. She was dressed out like a
shrine, all gold and ribbons, and was going in one evening with a party
of gipsies to amuse the colonel's guests. She recognised me, and named a
place where I could meet her next day. When I gave her back the gold
piece she burst into laughter, but kept it all the same. Do you know, my
son,' she said to me when we parted, 'I believe I love you a little. But
that cannot last. Dog and wolf do not keep house together long. Perhaps,
if you adopted the gipsy law, I would like to become your wife. But it
is nonsense; it is impossible. Think no more of Carmencita, or she will
bring you to the gallows.'

"She spoke the truth. I would have been wise to think no more of her;
but after that day I could think of nothing else, and walked about
always hoping to meet her, but she had left the town.

"It was some weeks later, when I had been placed as a night sentinel at
one of the town gates that I saw Carmen. I was put there to prevent
smuggling; but Carmen persuaded me to let five of her friends pass in,
and they were all well laden with English goods. She told me I might
come and see her next day at the same house I had visited before.

"Carmen had moods, like the weather in our country. She would make
appointments and not keep them, and at another time, would be full of
affection.

"One evening when I had called on a friend of Carmen's the gipsy entered
the room, followed by a young man, a lieutenant in our regiment.

"He told me to decamp, and I said something sharp to him. We soon drew
our swords, and presently the point of mine entered his body. Then
Carmen extinguished the lamp, and, wounded though I was, we started
running down the street. 'Great fool,' she said. 'You can do nothing but
foolish things. Besides, I told you I would bring you bad luck.' She
made me take off my uniform and put on a striped cloak, and this with a
handkerchief over my head, enabled me to pass fairly well for a peasant.
Then she took me to a house at the end of a little lane, and she and
another gipsy washed and dressed my wounds. Next day Carmen pointed out
to me the new career she destined me for. I was to go to the coast and
become a smuggler. In truth it was the only one left me, now that I had
incurred the punishment of death. Besides, I believed I could make sure
of her love. Carmen introduced me to her people, and at first the
freedom of the smuggler's life pleased me better than the soldier's
life. I saw Carmen often, and she showed more liking for me than ever;
but, she would not admit that she was willing to be my wife."


_IV.--The End of Don José's Story_


"One becomes a rogue without thinking, sir. A pretty girl makes one lose
one's head, one fights for her, a misfortune happens, one is driven to
the mountains, from smuggler one becomes robber before reflecting.

"Carmen often made me jealous, especially after she accepted me as her
husband, and she warned me not to interfere with her freedom. On my part
I wanted to change my way of life, but when I spoke to her about
quitting Spain and trying to live honestly in America, she laughed at
me.

"'We are not made for planting cabbages,' she said; '_our_ destiny is to
live at the expense of others.' Then she told me of a fresh piece of
smuggling on hand, and I let myself be persuaded to resume the wretched
traffic.

"While I was in hiding at Granada, there were bullfights to which Carmen
went. When she returned, she spoke much of a very skilful picador, named
Lucas. She knew the name of his horse, and how much his embroidered
jacket cost him. I paid no heed to this, but began to grow alarmed when
I heard that Carmen had been seen about with Lucas. I asked her how and
why she had made his acquaintance.

"'He is a man,' she said, 'with whom business can be done. He has won
twelve hundred pounds at the bullfights. One of two things: we must
either have the money, or, as he is a good horseman, we can enroll him
in our band.'

"'I wish,' I replied, 'neither his money nor his person, and I forbid
you to speak to him.'

"'Take care,' she said; 'when anyone dares me to do a thing it is soon
done.'

"Luckily the picador left for Malaga, and I set about my smuggling. I
had a great deal to do in this expedition, and it was about that time I
first met you. Carmen robbed you of your watch at our last interview,
and she wanted your money as well. We had a violent dispute about that,
and I struck her. She turned pale and wept. It was the first time I saw
her weep, and it had a terrible effect on me. I begged her pardon, but
it was not till three days later that she would kiss me.

"'There is a fête at Cordova,' she said, when we were friends again. 'I
am going to see it, then I shall find out the people who carry money
with them and tell you.'

"I let her go, but when a peasant told me there was a bull-fight at
Cordova, I set off like a madman to the spot. Lucas was pointed out to
me, and on the bench close to the barrier I recognised Carmen. It was
enough for me to see her to be certain how things stood. Lucas, at the
first bull, did the gallant, as I had foreseen. He tore the bunch of
ribbons from the bull and carried it to Carmen, who put it in her hair
on the spot. The bull took upon itself the task of avenging me. Lucas
was thrown down with his horse on his chest, and the bull on the top of
both. I looked at Carmen, she had already left her seat, but I was so
wedged in I was obliged to wait for the end of the fights.

"I got home first, however, and Carmen only arrived at two o'clock in
the morning.

"'Come with me,' I said.

"'Very well, let us go,' she answered.

"I went and fetched my horse; I put her behind me, and we travelled all
the rest of the night without speaking. At daybreak we were in a
solitary gorge.

"'Listen,' I said to Carmen, 'I forget everything. Only swear to me one
thing, that you will follow me to America, and live there quietly with
me.'

"'No,' she said, in a sulky tone, 'I do not want to go to America. I am
quite comfortable here.'

"I implored her to let us change our way of life and Carmen answered, 'I
will follow you to death, but I will not live with you any longer. I
always thought you meant to kill me, and now I see that is what you are
going to do. It is destiny, but you will not make me yield.'

"'Listen to me!' I said, 'for the last time. You know that it is for you
I have become a robber and a murderer. Carmen! my Carmen, there is still
time for us to save ourselves,' I promised anything and everything if
she would love me again.

"'José,' she replied, 'you ask me for the impossible. I do not love you
any more. All is over between us. You have the right to kill me. But
Carmen must always be free. To love you is impossible, and I do not wish
to live with you.'

"Fury took possession of me, and I killed her with my knife. An hour
later I laid her in a grave in the wood. Then I mounted my horse,
galloped to Cordova, and gave myself up at the first guard-house....
Poor Carmen! it is the gipsies who are to blame for having brought her
up like that."

       *       *       *       *       *




MARY RUSSELL MITFORD


Our Village


     Mary Russell Mitford was known first as a dramatist, with
     tragedy as her forte, and in later years as a novelist, but by
     posterity she will be remembered as a portrayer of country
     life, in simply worded sketches, with a quiet colouring of
     humour. These sketches were collected, as "Our Village," into
     five volumes, between 1824 and 1832. Miss Mitford was born
     Dec. 16, 1787, at Alresford, Hampshire, England, the daughter
     of a foolish spendthrift father, to whom she was pathetically
     devoted, and lived in her native county almost throughout her
     life. In her later years she received a Civil List pension.
     She died on January 10, 1855. The quietness of the country is
     in all Miss Mitford's writing, but it is a cheerful country,
     pervaded by a rosy-cheeked optimism. Her letters, too,
     scribbled on small scraps of paper, are as attractive as her
     books.


_I.--Some of the Inhabitants_


Will you walk with me through our village, courteous reader? The journey
is not long. We will begin at the lower end, and proceed up the hill.

The tidy, square, red cottage on the right hand, with the long,
well-stocked garden by the side of the road, belongs to a retired
publican from a neighbouring town; a substantial person with a comely
wife--one who piques himself on independence and idleness, talks
politics, reads the newspapers, hates the minister, and cries out for
reform. He hangs over his gate, and tries to entice passengers to stop
and chat. Poor man! He is a very respectable person, and would be a very
happy one if he would add a little employment to his dignity. It would
be the salt of life to him.

Next to his house, though parted from it by another long garden with a
yew arbour at the end, is the pretty dwelling of the shoemaker, a pale,
sickly-looking, black-haired man, the very model of sober industry.
There he sits in his little shop from early morning till late at night.
An earthquake would hardly stir him. There is at least as much vanity in
his industry as in the strenuous idleness of the retired publican. The
shoemaker has only one pretty daughter, a light, delicate, fair-haired
girl of fourteen, the champion, protectress, and play-fellow of every
brat under three years old, whom she jumps, dances, dandles, and feeds
all day long. A very attractive person is that child-loving girl. She
likes flowers, and has a profusion of white stocks under her window, as
pure and delicate as herself.

The first house on the opposite side of the way is the blacksmith's--a
gloomy dwelling, where the sun never seems to shine; dark and smoky
within and without, like a forge. The blacksmith is a high officer in
our little state, nothing less than a constable; but alas, alas! when
tumults arise, and the constable is called for, he will commonly be
found in the thickest of the fray. Lucky would it be for his wife and
her eight children if there were no public-house in the land.

Then comes the village shop, like other village shops, multifarious as a
bazaar--a repository for bread, shoes, tea, cheese, tape, ribbons, and
bacon; for everything, in short, except the one particular thing which
you happen to want at the moment, and will be sure not to find.

Divided from the shop by a narrow yard is a habitation of whose inmates
I shall say nothing. A cottage--no, a miniature house, all angles, and
of a charming in-and-outness; the walls, old and weather-stained,
covered with hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles, and a great apricot-tree;
the casements full of geraniums (oh, there is our superb white cat
peeping out from among them!); the closets (our landlord has the
assurance to call them rooms) full of contrivances and corner-cupboards;
and the little garden behind full of common flowers. That house was
built on purpose to show in what an exceeding small compass comfort may
be packed.

The next tenement is a place of importance, the Rose Inn--a whitewashed
building, retired from the road behind its fine swinging sign, with a
little bow-window room coming out on one side, and forming, with our
stable on the other, a sort of open square, which is the constant resort
of carts, waggons, and return chaises.

Next door lives a carpenter, "famed ten miles around, and worthy all his
fame," with his excellent wife and their little daughter Lizzy, the
plaything and queen of the village--a child three years old according to
the register, but six in size and strength and intellect, in power and
self-will. She manages everybody in the place; makes the lazy carry her,
the silent talk to her, and the grave to romp with her. Her chief
attraction lies in her exceeding power of loving, and her firm reliance
on the love and the indulgence of others.

How pleasantly the road winds up the hill, with its broad, green borders
and hedgerows so thickly timbered! How finely the evening sun falls on
that sandy, excavated bank, and touches the farmhouse on the top of the
eminence!


_II.--Hannah Bint_


The shaw leading to Hannah Bint's habitation is a very pretty mixture of
wood and coppice. A sudden turn brings us to the boundary of the shaw,
and there, across the open space, the white cottage of the keeper peeps
from the opposite coppice; and the vine-covered dwelling of Hannah Bint
rises from amidst the pretty garden, which lies bathed in the sunshine
around it.

My friend Hannah Bint is by no means an ordinary person. Her father,
Jack Bint (for in all his life he never arrived at the dignity of being
called John), was a drover of high repute in his profession. No man
between Salisbury Plain and Smithfield was thought to conduct a flock of
sheep so skilfully through all the difficulties of lanes and commons,
streets and high-roads, as Jack Bint, aided by Jack Bint's famous dog,
Watch.

No man had a more thorough knowledge of the proper night stations, where
good feed might be procured for his charge, and good liquor for Watch
and himself; Watch, like other sheepdogs, being accustomed to live
chiefly on bread and beer, while his master preferred gin.

But when a rheumatic fever came one hard winter, and finally settled in
Jack Bint's limbs, reducing the most active and handy man in the parish
to the state of a confirmed cripple, poor Jack, a thoughtless but kind
creature, looked at his three motherless children with acute misery.
Then it was that he found help where he least expected it--in the sense
and spirit of his young daughter, a girl of twelve years old.

Hannah was a quick, clever lass of a high spirit, a firm temper, some
pride, and a horror of accepting parochial relief--that surest safeguard
to the sturdy independence of the English character. So when her father
talked of giving up their comfortable cottage and removing to the
workhouse, while she and her brothers must move to service, Hannah
formed a bold resolution, and proceeded to act at once on her own plans
and designs.

She knew that the employer in whose service her father's health had
suffered so severely was a rich and liberal cattle-dealer in the
neighbourhood, who would willingly aid an old and faithful servant. Of
Farmer Oakley, accordingly, she asked, not money, but something much
more in his own way--a cow! And, amused and interested by the child's
earnestness, the wealthy yeoman gave her a very fine young Alderney.

She then went to the lord of the manor, and, with equal knowledge of
character, begged his permission to keep her cow on the shaw common. He,
too, half from real good nature, and half not to be outdone in
liberality by his tenant, not only granted the requested permission, but
reduced the rent so much that the produce of the vine seldom failed to
satisfy their kind landlord.

Now Hannah showed great judgment in setting up as a dairy-woman. One of
the most provoking of the petty difficulties which beset a small
establishment in this neighbourhood is the trouble, almost the
impossibility, of procuring the pastoral luxuries of milk, eggs, and
butter. Hannah's Alderney restored us to our rural privilege. Speedily
she established a regular and gainful trade in milk, eggs, butter,
honey, and poultry--for poultry they had always kept.

In short, during the five years she has ruled at the shaw cottage the
world has gone well with Hannah Bint. She has even taught Watch to like
the buttermilk as well as strong beer, and has nearly persuaded her
father to accept milk as a substitute for gin. Not but that Hannah hath
had her enemies as well as her betters. The old woman at the lodge, who
always piqued herself on being spiteful, and crying down new ways,
foretold that she would come to no good; nay, even Ned Miles, the
keeper, her next neighbour, who had whilom held entire sway over the
shaw common, as well as its coppices, grumbled as much as so
good-natured and genial a person could grumble when he found a little
girl sharing his dominion, a cow grazing beside his pony, and vulgar
cocks and hens hovering around the buckwheat destined to feed his noble
pheasants.

Yes! Hannah hath had her enemies, but they are passing away. The old
woman at the lodge is dead, poor creature; and the keeper?--why, he is
not dead, or like to die, but the change that has taken place there is
the most astonishing of all--except perhaps the change in Hannah
herself.

Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were less
pretty than Hannah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, thin in face,
sharp in feature, with a muddied complexion, wild, sunburnt hair, and
eyes whose very brightness had in them something startling,
over-informed, too clever for her age; at twelve years old she had quite
the air of a little old fairy.

Now, at seventeen, matters are mended. Her complexion has cleared; her
countenance has developed itself; her figure has shot up into height and
lightness, and a sort of rustic grace; her bright, acute eye is softened
and sweetened by a womanly wish to please; her hair is trimmed and
curled and brushed with exquisite neatness; and her whole dress arranged
with that nice attention to the becoming which would be called the
highest degree of coquetry if it did not deserve the better name of
propriety. The lass is really pretty, and Ned Miles has discovered that
she is so. There he stands, the rogue, close at her side (for he hath
joined her whilst we have been telling her little story, and the milking
is over); there he stands holding her milk-pail in one hand, and
stroking Watch with the other. There they stand, as much like lovers as
may be; he smiling and she blushing; he never looking so handsome, nor
she so pretty, in their lives.

There they stand, and one would not disturb them for all the milk and
the butter in Christendom. I should not wonder if they were fixing the
wedding-day.


_III.--A Country Cricket Match_


I doubt if there be any scene in the world more animating or delightful
than a cricket match. I do not mean a set match at Lord's Ground--no!
the cricket I mean is a real solid, old-fashioned match between
neighbouring parishes, where each attacks the other for honour and a
supper.

For the last three weeks our village has been in a state of great
excitement, occasioned by a challenge from our north-western neighbours,
the men of B----, to contend with us at cricket. Now, we have not been
much in the habit of playing matches. The sport had languished until the
present season, when the spirit began to revive. Half a dozen fine,
active lads, of influence among their comrades, grew into men and
yearned for cricket. In short, the practice recommenced, and the hill
was again alive with men and boys and innocent merriment. Still, we were
modest and doubted our own strength.

The B---- people, on the other hand, must have been braggers born. Never
was such boasting! Such ostentatious display of practice! It was a
wonder they did not challenge all England. Yet we firmly resolved not to
decline the combat; and one of the most spirited of the new growth,
William Grey by name, and a farmer's son by station, took up the glove
in a style of manly courtesy that would have done honour to a knight in
the days of chivalry.

William Grey then set forth to muster his men, remembering with great
complacency that Samuel Long, the very man who had bowled us out at a
fatal return match some years ago at S--, our neighbours south-by-east,
had luckily, in a remove of a quarter of a mile last Lady Day, crossed
the boundaries of his old parish and actually belonged to us. Here was a
stroke of good fortune! Our captain applied to him instantly, and he
agreed at a word. We felt we had half gained the match when we had
secured him. Then James Brown, a journeyman blacksmith and a native,
who, being of a rambling disposition, had roamed from place to place for
half a dozen years, had just returned to our village with a prodigious
reputation in cricket and gallantry. To him also went the indefatigable
William Grey, and he also consented to play. Having thus secured two
powerful auxiliaries, we began to reckon the regular forces.

Thus ran our list. William Grey, 1; Samuel Long, 2; James Brown, 3;
George and John Simmons, one capital, the other so-so--an uncertain
hitter, but a good fieldsman, 5; Joel Brent, excellent, 6; Ben
Appleton--here was a little pause, for Ben's abilities at cricket were
not completely ascertained, but then he was a good fellow, so full of
fun and waggery! No doing without Ben. So he figured in the list as 7.
George Harris--a short halt there too--slowish, but sure, 8; Tom
Coper--oh, beyond the world Tom Coper, the red-headed gardening lad,
whose left-handed strokes send _her_ (a cricket-ball is always of the
feminine gender) send her spinning a mile, 9; Harry Willis, another
blacksmith, 10.

We had now ten of our eleven, but the choice of the last occasioned some
demur. John Strong, a nice youth--everybody likes John Strong--was the
next candidate, but he is so tall and limp that we were all afraid his
strength, in spite of his name, would never hold out. So the eve of the
match arrived and the post was still vacant, when a little boy of
fifteen, David Willis, brother to Harry, admitted by accident to the
last practice, saw eight of them out, and was voted in by acclamation.

Morning dawned. On calling over our roll, Brown was missing; and it
transpired that he had set off at four o'clock in the morning to play in
a cricket match at M----, a little town twelve miles off, which had been
his last residence. Here was desertion! Here was treachery! How we cried
him down! We were well rid of him, for he was no batter compared with
William Grey; not fit to wipe the shoes of Samuel Long as a bowler; the
boy David Willis was worth fifty of him. So we took tall John Strong. I
never saw any one prouder than the good-humoured lad was at this not
very flattering piece of preferment.

_They_ began the warfare--these boastful men of B----! And what think
you was the amount of their innings? These challengers--the famous
eleven--how many did they get? Think! Imagine! Guess! You cannot. Well,
they got twenty-two, or, rather, they got twenty, for two of theirs were
short notches, and would never have been allowed, only that, seeing what
they were made of, we and our umpires were not particular. Oh, how well
we fielded.

Then we went in. And what of our innings? Guess! A hundred and sixty-nine!
We headed them by a hundred and forty-seven; and then they gave in,
as well they might. William Grey pressed them much to try another
innings, but they were beaten sulky and would not move.

The only drawback in my enjoyment was the failure of the pretty boy
David Willis, who, injudiciously put in first, and playing for the first
time in a match amongst men and strangers, was seized with such a fit of
shamefaced shyness that he could scarcely hold his bat, and was bowled
out without a stroke, from actual nervousness. Our other modest lad,
John Strong, did very well; his length told in the field, and he got
good fame. William Grey made a hit which actually lost the cricket-ball.
We think she lodged in a hedge a quarter of a mile off, but nobody could
find her. And so we parted; the players retired to their supper and we
to our homes, all good-humoured and all happy--except the losers.


_IV.--Love, the Leveller_


The prettiest cottage on our village green is the little dwelling of
Dame Wilson. The dame was a respected servant in a most respectable
family, which she quitted only on her marriage with a man of character
and industry, and of that peculiar universality of genius which forms
what is called, in country phrase, a handy fellow. His death, which
happened about ten years ago, made quite a gap in our village
commonwealth.

Without assistance Mrs. Wilson contrived to maintain herself and her
children in their old, comfortable home. The house had still, within and
without, the same sunshiny cleanliness, and the garden was still famous
over all other gardens. But the sweetest flower of the garden, and the
joy and pride of her mother's heart, was her daughter Hannah. Well might
she be proud of her! At sixteen, Hannah Wilson was, beyond a doubt, the
prettiest girl in the village, and the best. Her chief characteristic
was modesty. Her mind was like her person: modest, graceful, gentle and
generous above all.

Our village beauty had fairly reached her twentieth year without a
sweetheart; without the slightest suspicion of her having ever written a
love-letter on her own account, when, all of a sudden, appearances
changed. A trim, elastic figure, not unaccompanied, was descried walking
down the shady lane. Hannah had gotten a lover!

Since the new marriage act, we, who belong to the country magistrates,
have gained a priority over the rest of the parish in matrimonial news.
We (the privileged) see on a work-day the names which the Sabbath
announces to the generality. One Saturday, walking through our little
hall, I saw a fine athletic young man, the very image of health and
vigour, mental and bodily, holding the hand of a young woman, who was
turning bashfully away, listening, and yet not seeming to listen, to his
tender whispers. Hannah! And she went aside with me, and a rapid series
of questions and answers conveyed the story of the courtship. "William
was," said Hannah, "a journeyman hatter, in B----. He had walked over to
see the cricketing, and then he came again. Her mother liked him.
Everybody liked him--and she had promised. Was it wrong?"

"Oh, no! And where are you to live?" "William had got a room in B----.
He works for Mr. Smith, the rich hatter in the market-place, and Mr.
Smith speaks of him, oh, so well! But William will not tell me where our
room is. I suppose in some narrow street or lane, which he is afraid I
shall not like, as our common is so pleasant. He little
thinks--anywhere--" She stopped suddenly. "Anywhere with him!"

The wedding-day was a glorious morning.

"What a beautiful day for Hannah!" was the first exclamation at the
breakfast-table. "Did she tell you where they should dine?"

"No, ma'am; I forgot to ask."

"I can tell you," said the master of the house, with the look of a man
who, having kept a secret as long as it was necessary, is not sorry to
get rid of the burthen. "I can tell you--in London."

"In London?"

"Yes. Your little favourite has been in high luck. She has married the
only son of one of the best and richest men in B----, Mr. Smith, the
great hatter. It is quite a romance. William Smith walked over to see a
match, saw our pretty Hannah, and forgot to look at the cricketers. He
came again and again, and at last contrived to tame this wild dove, and
even to get the _entrée_ of the cottage. Hearing Hannah talk is not the
way to fall out of love with her. So William, finding his case serious,
laid the matter before his father, and requested his consent to the
marriage. Mr. Smith was at first a little startled. But William is an
only son, and an excellent son; and after talking with me, and looking
at Hannah, the father relented. But, having a spice of his son's
romance, and finding that he had not mentioned his station in life, he
made a point of its being kept secret till the wedding-day. I hope the
shock will not kill Hannah."

"Oh, no! Hannah loves her husband too well."

And I was right. Hannah has survived the shock. She is returned to
B----, and I have been to call on her. She is still the same Hannah, and
has lost none of her old habits of kindness and gratitude. She did
indeed just hint at her trouble with visitors and servants; seemed
distressed at ringing the bell, and visibly shrank from the sound of a
double knock. But in spite of these calamities Hannah is a happy woman.
The double rap was her husband's, and the glow on her cheek, and the
smile of her lips and eyes when he appeared spoke more plainly than
ever: "Anywhere with him!"

       *       *       *       *       *




DAVID MOIR


Autobiography of Mansie Wauch


     David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh, Scotland, Jan. 5,
     1798, and educated at the grammar school of the Royal Burgh
     and at Edinburgh University, from which he received the
     diploma of surgeon in 1816. He practised as a physician in his
     native town from 1817 until 1843, when, health failing, he
     practically withdrew from the active duties of his profession.
     Moir began to write in both prose and verse for various
     periodicals when quite a youth, but his long connection with
     "Blackwood's Magazine" under the pen name of "Delta",
     began in 1820, and he became associated with
     Christopher North, the Ettrick Shepherd, and others of the
     Edinburgh coterie distinguished in "Noctes Ambrosianae." He
     contributed to "Blackwood," histories, biographies, essays,
     and poems, to the number of about 400. His poems were esteemed
     beyond their merits by his generation, and his reputation now
     rests almost solely on the caustic humour of his
     "Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," published in 1828, a series
     of sketches of the manner of life in the shop-keeping and
     small-trading class of a Scottish provincial town at the
     beginning of the nineteenth century. Moir died at Dumfries on
     July 6, 1851.


_I.--Mansie's Forebears and Early Life_


Some of the rich houses and great folk pretend to have histories of the
ancientness of their families, which they can count back on their
fingers almost to the days of Noah's Ark, and King Fergus the First, but
it is not in my power to come further back than auld grand-faither, who
died when I was a growing callant. I mind him full well. To look at him
was just as if one of the ancient patriarchs had been left on the earth,
to let succeeding survivors witness a picture of hoary and venerable
eld.

My own father, auld Mansie Wauch, was, at the age of thirteen, bound a
'prentice to the weaver trade, which he prosecuted till a mortal fever
cut through the thread of his existence. Alas, as Job says, "How time
flies like a weaver's shuttle!" He was a decent, industrious,
hard-working man, doing everything for the good of his family, and
winning the respect of all who knew the value of his worth. On the
five-and-twentieth year of his age he fell in love with, and married, my
mother, Marion Laverock.

I have no distinct recollection of the thing myself, but there is every
reason to believe that I was born on October 13, 1765, in a little house
in the Flesh-Market Gate, Dalkeith, and the first thing I have any clear
memory of was being carried on my auntie's shoulders to see the Fair
Race. Oh! but it was a grand sight! I have read since the story of
Aladdin's Wonderful Lamp, but that fair and the race, which was won by a
young birkie who had neither hat nor shoon, riding a philandering beast
of a horse thirteen or fourteen years auld, beat it all to sticks.

In time, I was sent to school, where I learned to read and spell, making
great progress in the Single and Mother's Carritch. What is more, few
could fickle me in the Bible, being mostly able to spell it all over,
save the second of Ezra and the seventh of Nehemiah, which the Dominie
himself could never read through twice in the same way, or without
variation.

Being of a delicate make--nature never intended me for the naval or
military line, or for any robustious profession--I was apprenticed to
the tailoring trade. Just afterwards I had a terrible stound of
calf-love, my first flame being the minister's lassie, Jess, a buxom and
forward queen, two or three years older than myself. I used to sit
looking at her in the kirk, and felt a droll confusion when our eyes
met. It dirled through my heart like a dart. Fain would I have spoken to
her, but aye my courage failed me, though whiles she gave me a smile
when she passed. She used to go to the well every night with her two
stoups to draw water, so I thought of watching to give her two apples
which I had carried in my pocket for more than a week for that purpose.
How she started when I stappit them into her hand, and brushed by
without speaking!

Jamie Coom, the blacksmith, who I aye jealoused was my rival, came up
and asked Jess, with a loud guffaw, "Where is the tailor?" When I heard
that, I took to my heels till I found myself on the little stool by the
fireside with the hamely sound of my mother's wheel bum-bumming in my
lug, like a gentle lullaby.

The days of the years of my 'prenticeship having glided cannily over, I
girt myself round about with a proud determination of at once cutting my
mother's apron-string. So I set out for Edinburgh in search of a
journeyman's place, which I got the very first day in the Grassmarket.
My lodging was up six pairs of stairs, in a room which I rented for
half-a-crown a week, coals included; but my heart was sea-sick of
Edinburgh folk and town manners, for which I had no stomach. I could
form no friendly acquaintanceship with a living soul. Syne I abode by
myself, like St. John in the Isle of Patmos, on spare allowance, making
a sheep-head serve me for three days' kitchen.

Everything around me seemed to smell of sin and pollution, and often did
I commune with my own heart, that I would rather be a sober, poor,
honest man in the country, able to clear my day and way by the help of
Providence, than the provost himself, my lord though he be, or even the
mayor of London, with his velvet gown trailing for yards in the glaur
behind him, or riding about the streets in a coach made of clear crystal
and wheels of beaten gold.

But when my heart was sickening unto death, I fell in with the greatest
blessing of my life, Nanse Cromie, a bit wench of a lassie frae the
Lauder direction, who had come to be a servant in the flat below our
workshop, and whom I often met on the stairs.

If ever a man loved, and loved like mad, it was me; and I take no shame
in the confession. Let them laugh who like; honest folk, I pity them;
such know not the pleasures of virtuous affection. Matters were by and
bye settled full tosh between us; and though the means of both parties
were small, we were young, and able and willing to help one another.
Nanse and me laid our heads together towards the taking a bit house in
the fore-street of Dalkeith, and at our leisure bought the plenishing.

Two or three days after Maister Wiggie, the minister, had gone through
the ceremony of tying us together, my sign was nailed up, painted in
black letters on a blue ground, with a picture of a jacket on one side
and a pair of shears on the other; and I hung up a wheen ready-made
waistcoats, caps, and Kilmarnock cowls in the window. Business in fact,
flowed in upon us in a perfect torrent.

Both Nanse and I found ourselves so proud of our new situation that we
slipped out in the dark and had a prime look with a lantern at the sign,
which was the prettiest ye ever saw, although some sandblind creatures
had taken the neatly painted jacket for a goose.


_II.--The Resurrection Men_


A year or two after the birth and christening of wee Benjie, my son, I
was cheated by a swindling black-aviced Englishman out of some weeks'
lodgings and keep, and a pair of new velveteen knee-breeches.

Then there arose a great surmise that some loons were playing false with
the kirkyard; and, on investigation, it was found that four graves had
been opened, and the bodies harled away to the college. Words cannot
describe the fear, the dool, and the misery it caused, and the righteous
indignation that burst through the parish.

But what remead? It was to watch in the session-house with loaded guns,
night about, three at a time. It was in November when my turn came. I
never liked to go into the kirkyard after darkening, let-a-be sit
through a long winter night with none but the dead around us. I felt a
kind of qualm of faintness and downsinking about my heart and stomach,
to the dispelling of which I took a thimbleful of spirits, and, tying my
red comforter about my neck, I marched briskly to the session-house.

Andrew Goldie, the pensioner, lent me his piece and loaded it to me. Not
being well acquaint with guns, I kept the muzzle aye away from me, as it
is every man's duty not to throw his precious life into jeopardy. A
bench was set before the sessions-house fire, which bleezed brightly. My
spirits rose, and I wondered, in my bravery, that a man like me should
be afraid of anything. Nobody was there but a towzy, carroty-haired
callant.

The night was now pitmirk. The wind soughed amid the headstones and
railings of the gentry (for we must all die), and the black corbies in
the steeple-holes cackled and crawed in a fearsome manner. Oh, but it
was lonesome and dreary; and in about an hour the laddie wanted to rin
awa hame; but, trying to look brave, though half-frightened out of my
seven senses, I said, "Sit down, sit down; I've baith whiskey and porter
wi' me. Hae, man, there's a cawker to keep your heart warm; and set down
that bottle of Deacon Jaffrey's best brown stout to get a toast."

The wind blew like a hurricane; the rain began to fall in perfect
spouts. Just in the heart of the brattle the grating of the yett turning
on its rusty hinges was but too plainly heard.

"The're coming; cock the piece, ye sumph!" cried the laddie, while his
red hair rose, from his pow like feathers. "I hear them tramping on the
gravel," and he turned the key in the lock and brizzed his back against
the door like mad, shouting out, "For the Lord's sake, prime the gun, or
our throats will be cut before you can cry Jack Robinson."

I did the best I could, but the gun waggled to and fro like a cock's
tail on a rainy day. I trust I was resigned to die, but od' it was a
frightful thing to be out of one's bed to be murdered in an old
session-house at the dead hour of the night by devils incarnate of
ressurrection men with blacked faces, pistols, big sticks, and other
deadly weapons.

After all, it was only Isaac, the bethrel, who, when we let him in, said
that he had just keppit four ressurrectioners louping over the wall. But
that was a joke. I gave Isaac a dram to kep his heart up, and he sung
and leuch as if he had been boozing with some of his drucken cronies;
for feint a hair cared he about auld kirkyards, or vouts, or dead folk
in their winding-sheets, with the wet grass growing over them. Then,
although I tried to stop him, he began to tell stories of Eirish
ressurrectioners, and ghaists, seen in the kirkyard at midnight.

Suddenly a clap like thunder was heard, and the laddie, who had fallen
asleep on the bench, jumped up and roared "Help!" "Murder!" "Thieves!"
while Isaac bellowed out, "I'm dead! I'm killed!--shot through the head!
Oh, oh, oh!" Surely, I had fainted away, for, when I came to myself, I
found my red comforter loosed, my face all wet, Isaac rubbing down his
waistcoat with his sleeve--the laddie swigging ale out of a bicker--and
the brisk brown stout, which, by casting its cork, had caused all the
alarm, whizz-whizz, whizzing in the chimney lug.


_III.--The Friends of the People_


The sough of war and invasion flew over the land at this time, like a
great whirlwind; and the hearts of men died within their persons with
fear and trembling. Abroad the heads of crowned kings were cut off, and
great dukes and lords were thrown into dark dungeons, or obligated to
flee for their lives to foreign countries.

But worst of all the trouble seemed a smittal one, and even our own land
began to show symptoms of the plague spot. Agents of the Spirit of
Darkness, calling themselves the Friends of the People, held secret
meetings, and hatched plots to blow up our blessed king and
constitution. Yet the business, though fearsome in the main, was in some
parts almost laughable. Everything was to be divided, and everyone made
alike. Houses and lands were to be distributed by lots, and the mighty
man and the beggar--the old man and the hobble-de-hoy--the industrious
man and the spendthrift, the maimed, the cripple, and the blind, the
clever man of business, and the haveril simpleton, made all just
brethern, and alike. Save us! but to think of such nonsense! At one of
their meetings, held at the sign of the Tappet Hen and the Tankard,
there was a prime fight of five rounds between Tammy Bowsie, the snab,
and auld Thrashem, the dominie, about their drawing cuts which was to
get Dalkeith Palace, and which Newbottle Abbey! Oh, sic riff-raff!

It was a brave notion of the king to put the loyalty of the land to the
test, that the daft folk might be dismayed, and that the clanjamphrey
might be tumbled down before their betters, like the windle-straes in a
hurricane. And so they were. Such crowds came forward when the names of
the volunteers were taken down. I will never forget the first day that I
got my regimentals on, and when I looked myself in the glass, just to
think I was a sodger who never in my life could thole the smell of
powder! Oh, but it was grand! I sometimes fancied myself a general, and
giving the word of command. Big Sam, who was a sergeant in the
fencibles, and enough to have put five Frenchmen to flight any day of
the year, whiles came to train us; but as nature never intended me for
the soldiering trade, I never got out of the awkward squad, though I had
two or three neighbours to keep me in countenance.

We all cracked very crouse about fighting; but one dark night we got a
fleg in sober earnest. Jow went the town bell, and row-de-dow gaed the
drums, and all in a minute was confusion and uproar in ilka street. I
was seized with a severe shaking of the knees and a flapping at the
heart, when, through the garret window, I saw the signal posts were in a
bleeze, and that the French had landed. This was in reality to be a
soldier! I never got such a fright since the day I was cleckit. There
was such a noise and hullabaloo in the streets, as if the Day of
Judgment had come to find us all unprepared.

Notwithstanding, we behaved ourselves like true-blue Scotsmen, called
forth to fight the battles of our country, and if the French had come,
as they did not come, they would have found that to their cost, as sure
as my name is Mansie. However, it turned out that it was a false alarm,
and that the thief Buonaparte had not landed at Dunbar, as it was
jealoused; so, after standing under arms for half the night, we were
sent home to our beds.

But next day we were taken out to be taught the art of firing. We went
through our motions bravely--to load, ram down the cartridge, made
ready, present, fire. But so flustered and confused was I that I never
had mind to pull the tricker, though I rammed down a fresh cartridge at
the word of command. At the end of the firing the sergeant of the
company ordered all that had loaded pieces to come to the front, and six
of us stepped out in a little line in face of the regiment. Our pieces
were cocked, and at the word "Fire!" off they went. It was an act of
desperation on my part to draw the tricker, and I had hardly well shut
my blinkers when I got such a thump on the shoulder as knocked me
backwards, head over heels, on the grass. When I came to my senses and
found myself not killed outright, and my gun two or three ells away, I
began to rise up. Then I saw one of the men going forward to lift the
fatal piece, but my care for the safety of others overcame the sense of
my own peril. "Let alane, let alane!" cried I to him, "and take care of
yoursell, for it has to gang off five times yet." I thought in my
innocence that we should hear as many reports as I had crammed
cartridges down her muzzle. This was a sore joke against me for a length
of time; but I tholed it patiently, considering cannily within myself,
that even Johnny Cope himself had not learned the art of war in a single
morning.


_IV.--My First and Last Play_


Maister Glen, a farmer from the howes of the Lammermoor, Hills, a
far-awa cousin of our neighbour Widow Grassie, came to Dalkeith to buy a
horse at our fair. He put up free of expense at the widow's, who asked
me to join him and her at a bit warm dinner, as may be, being a
stranger, he would not like to use the freedom of drinking by himself--a
custom which is at the best an unsocial one--especially with none but
women-folk near him.

When we got our joy filled for the second time, and began to be better
acquainted, we became merry, and cracked away just like two pen-guns. I
asked him, ye see, about sheep and cows, and ploughing and thrashing,
and horses and carts, and fallow land and lambing-time, and such like;
and he, in his turn, made inquiries regarding broad and narrow cloth,
Shetland hose, and mittens, thread, and patent shears, measuring, and
all other particulars belonging to our trade, which he said, at long and
last, after we had joked together, was a power better one than the
farming line; and he promised to bind his auldest callant 'prentice to
me to the tailoring trade.

On the head of this auld Glen and I had another jug, three being cannie,
after which we were both a wee tozymozy. Mistress Grassie saw plainly
that we were getting into a state where we could not easily make a halt,
and brought in the tea-things and told us that a company of strolling
players had come to the town and were to give an exhibition in Laird
Wheatley's barn. Many a time I had heard of play-acting, and I
determined to run the risk of Maister Wiggie, our minister's rebuke, for
the transgression. Auld Glen, being as full of nonsense and as fain to
gratify his curiosity as myself, volunteered to pay the ransom of a
shilling for admission, so we went to the barn, which had been browley
set out for the occasion by Johnny Hammer, the joiner.

The place was choke-full, just to excess, and when the curtain was
hauled up in came a decent old gentleman in great distress, and implored
all the powers of heaven and earth to help him find his runaway daughter
that had decamped with some ne'er-do-weel loon of a half-pay captain.
Out he went stumping on the other side, determined, he said, to find
them, though he should follow them to Johnny Groat's house, or something
to that effect. Hardly was his back turned than in came the birkie and
the very young lady the old gentleman described, arm-and-arm together,
laughing like daft Dog on it! It was a shameless piece of business. As
true as death, before all the crowd of folk, he put his arm round her
waist and called her his sweetheart, and love, and dearie, and darling,
and everything that is fine.

In the middle of their goings on, the sound of a coming foot was heard,
and the lassie, taking guilt to her, cried out, "Hide me, hide me, for
the sake of goodness, for yonder comes my old father!" No sooner said
than done. In he stappit her into a closit, and, after shutting the door
on her, he sat down upon a chair, pretending to be asleep in the
twinkling of a walking-stick. The old father came bounsing in, shook him
up, and gripping him by the cuff of the neck, aske him, in a fierce
tone, what he had made of his daughter. Never since I was born did I
ever see such brazen-faced impudence! The rascal had the face to say at
once that he had not seen the lassie for a month. As a man, as a father,
as an elder of our kirk, my corruption was raised, for I aye hated lying
as a poor cowardly sin, so I called out, "Dinna believe him, auld
gentleman; he's telling a parcel of lees. Never saw her for a month!
Just open that press-door, and ye'll see whether I am speaking truth or
not!" The old man stared and looked dumfounded; and the young one,
instead of running forward with his double nieves to strike me, began
a-laughing, as if I had done him a good turn.

But never since I had a being did I ever witness such an uproar and
noise as immediately took place. The whole house was so glad that the
scoundrel had been exposed that they set up siccan a roar of laughter,
and thumped away at siccan a rate with their feet that down fell the
place they called the gallery, all the folk in't being hurl'd
topsy-turvy among the sawdust on the floor below.

Then followed cries of "Murder," "Hold off me," "My ribs are in," "I'm
killed," "I'm speechless." There was a rush to the door, the lights were
knocked out, and such tearing, swearing, tumbling, and squealing was
never witnessed in the memory of man since the building of Babel. I was
carried off my feet, my wind was fairly gone, and a sick qualm came over
me, which entirely deprived me of my senses. On opening my eyes in the
dark, I found myself leaning with my broadside against the wall on the
opposite side of the close, with the tail of my Sunday coat docked by
the hainch buttons. So much for plays and play-actors--the first and the
last I trust in grace that I shall ever see.

Next morning I had to take my breakfast in bed, a thing very uncommon to
me, except on Sunday mornings whiles, when each one according to the
bidding of the Fourth Commandment, has a licence to do as he likes.
Having a desperate sore head, our wife, poor body, put a thimbleful of
brandy into my first cup of tea which had a wonderful virtue in putting
all things to rights.

In the afternoon Thomas Burlings, the ruling elder in the kirk, popped
into the shop, and, in our two-handed crack, after asking me in a dry,
curious way if I had come by no skaith in the business of the play, he
said the thing had now spread far and wide, and was making a great noise
in the world. I thought the body a wee sharp in his observe, so I
pretended to take it quite lightly. Then he began to tell me a wheen
stories, each one having to do with drinking.

"It's a wearyfu' thing that whisky," said Thomas. "I wish it could be
banished to Botany Bay."

"It is that," said I. "Muckle and nae little sin does it breed and
produce in this world."

"I'm glad," quoth Thomas, stroking down his chin in a slee way, "I'm
glad the guilty should see the folly o' their ain ways; it's the first
step, ye ken, till amendment. And indeed I tell't Maister Wiggie, when
he sent me here, that I could almost become guid for your being mair
wary of your conduct for the future time to come."

This was a thunder-clap to me, but I said briskly, "So ye're after some
session business in this visit, are ye?"

"Ye've just guessed it," answered Thomas, sleeking down his front hair
with his fingers in a sober way. "We had a meeting this forenoon, and it
was resolved ye should stand a public rebuke in the meeting house next
Sunday."

"Hang me if I do!" answered I. "Not for all the ministers and elders
that were ever cleckit. I was born a free man, I live in a free country,
I am the subject of a free king and constitution, and I'll be shot
before I submit to such rank diabolical papistry."

"Hooly and fairly, Mansie," quoth Thomas. "They'll maybe no be sae hard
as they threaten. But ye ken, my friend, I'm speaking to you as a
brither; it was an unco'-like business for an elder, not only to gang
till a play, which is ane of the deevil's rendevouses, but to gan there
in a state of liquor, making yourself a world's wonder, and you an elder
of our kirk! I put the question to yourself soberly."

His threatening I could despise; but ah, his calm, brotherly, flattering
way I could not thole with. So I said till him, "Weel, weel, Thomas, I
ken I have done wrong, and I am sorry for't; they'll never find me in
siccan a scrape again."

Thomas Burlings, in a friendly way, shook hands with me; telling that he
would go back and plead with the session in my behalf. To do him justice
he was not worse than his word, for I have aye attended the kirk as
usual, standing, when it came to my rotation, at the plate, and nobody,
gentle or simple, ever spoke to me on the subject of the playhouse, or
minted the matter of the rebuke from that day to this.


_V.--Benjie a Barber_


When wee Benjie came to his thirteenth year, many and long were the
debates between his fond mother and me what trade we would bring him up
to. His mother thought that he had just the physog of an admiral, and
when the matter was put to himsell, Benjie said quite briskly he would
like to be a gentleman. At which I broke through my rule never to lift
my fist to the bairn, and gave him such a yerk in the cheek with the
loof of my hand, as made, I am sure, his lugs ring, and sent him dozing
to the door like a peerie.

We discussed, among other trades and professions, a lawyer's advocatt, a
preaching minister, a doctor, a sweep, a rowley-powley man, a
penny-pie-man, a man-cook, that easiest of all lives, a gentleman's
gentleman; but in the end Nanse, when I suggested a barber, gave a
mournful look and said in a state of Christian resignation, "Tak' your
ain way, gudeman."

And so Benjie was apprenticed to be a barber, for, as I made the
observe, "Commend me to a safe employment, and a profitable. They may
give others the nick, and draw blood, but catch them hurting themselves.
The foundations of the hair-cutting and the shaving line are as sure as
that of the everlasting rocks; beards being likely to roughen, and heads
to require polling as long as wood grows and water runs."

Benjie is now principal shop-man in a Wallflower Hair-Powder and Genuine
Macassar Oil Warehouse, kept by three Frenchmen, called Moosies
Peroukey, in the West End of London. But, though our natural enemies, he
writes me that he has found them agreeable and shatty masters, full of
good manners and pleasant discourse, and, except in their language,
almost Christians.

I aye thought Benjie was a genius, and he is beginning to show himself
his father's son, being in thoughts of taking out a patent for making a
hair-oil from rancid butter. If he succeeds it will make the callant's
fortune. But he must not marry Madamoselle Peroukey without my special
consent, as Nance says that her having a French woman for a
daughter-in-law would be the death of her.

As for myself, I have now retired from business with my guid wife Nanse
to our ain cottage at Lugton, with a large garden and henhouse attached,
there to spend the evening of our days. I have enjoyed a pleasant run of
good health through life, reading my Bible more in hope than fear; our
salvation, and not our destruction, being, I should suppose, its
purpose. And I trust that the overflowing of a grateful heart will not
be reckoned against me for unrighteousness.

       *       *       *       *       *




JAMES MORIER


The Adventures of Hajji Baba of Ispahan


     "Hajji Baba" stands by itself among the innumerable books
     written of the East by Europeans. For these inimitable
     concessions of a Persian rogue are intended to give a picture
     of Oriental life as seen by Oriental and not by Western
     eyes---to present the country and people of Persia from a
     strictly Persian standpoint. This daring attempt to look at
     the East from the inside, as it were, is acknowledged to be
     successful; all Europeans familiar with Persia testify to the
     truth, often very caustic truth, of James Morier's
     portraiture. The author of "The Adventures of Hajji Baba of
     Ispahan" was born about 1780, and spent most of his days as a
     diplomatic representative of Great Britain in the East. He
     first visited Persia in 1808-09, as private secretary to the
     mission mentioned in the closing pages of "Hajji Baba." He
     returned to Persia in 1811-12, and again in 1814, and wrote
     two books about the country. But the thoroughness and candour
     of his intimacy with the Persian character were not fully
     revealed until the publication of "Hajji Baba" in 1824. So
     popular was the work that Morier wrote an amusing sequel to it
     entitled "Hajji Baba in England." He died on March 23, 1849.


_I.--The Turcomans_


My father, Kerbelai Hassan, was one of the most celebrated barbers of
Ispahan. I was the son of his second wife, and as I was born when my
father and mother were on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Hosein, in
Kerbelah, I was called Hajji, or the pilgrim, a name which has procured
for me a great deal of unmerited respect, because that honoured title is
seldom conferred on any but those who have made the great pilgrimage to
the tomb of the blessed Prophet of Mecca.

I was taught to read and write by a mollah, or priest, who kept a school
in a mosque near at hand; when not in school I attended the shop, and by
the time I was sixteen it would be difficult to say whether I was most
accomplished as a barber or a scholar. My father's shop, being situated
near the largest caravanserai in the city, was the common resort of the
foreign merchants; and one of them, Osman Aga, of Bagdad, took a great
fancy to me, and so excited me by describing the different cities he had
visited, that I soon felt a strong desire to travel. He was then in want
of someone to keep his accounts, and as I associated the two
qualifications of barber and scribe, he made me such advantageous offers
that I agreed to follow him.

His purpose was to journey to Meshed with the object of purchasing the
lambskins of Bokhara. Our caravan proceeded without impediment to
Tehran; but the dangerous part of the journey was yet to come, as a
tribe of Turcomans were known to infest the road.

We advanced by slow marches over a parched and dreary country, and our
conversation chiefly turned upon the Turcomans. Everyone vaunted his own
courage; my master above the rest, his teeth actually chattering with
apprehension, boasted of what he would do in case we were attacked. But
when we in reality perceived a body of Turcomans coming down upon us,
the scene instantly changed. Some ran away; others, and among them my
master, yielded to intense fear, and began to exclaim: "O Allah! O
Imams! O Mohammed the Prophet, we are gone! We are dying! We are dead!"
A shower of arrows, which the enemy discharged as they came in, achieved
their conquest, and we soon became their prey. The Turcomans having
completed their plunder, placed each of us behind a horseman, and we
passed through wild tracts of mountainous country to a large plain,
covered with the black tents and the flocks and herds of our enemies.

My master was set to tend camels in the hills; but when the Turcomans
discovered my abilities as a barber and a surgeon, I became a general
favourite, and gained the confidence of the chief of the tribe himself.
Finally, he determined to permit me to accompany him on a predatory
excursion into Persia--a permission which I hoped would lead to my
escaping. I was the more ready to do so, in that I secretly possessed
fifty ducats. These had been concealed by my master, Osman Aga, in his
turban at the outset of his journey. The turban had been taken from him
and carried to the women's quarters, whence I had recovered it. I had
some argument with myself as to whether I ought to restore the ducats to
him; but I persuaded myself that the money was now mine rather than his.
"Had it not been for me," I said, "the money was lost for ever; who,
therefore, has a better claim to it than myself?"

We carried off much property on the raid, but as our only prisoners were
a court poet, a carpet-spreader, and a penniless cadi, we had little to
hope for in the way of ransom. On our return journey we perceived a
large body of men, too compact for a caravan--plainly some great
personage and his escort. The Turcomans retired hastily, but I lagged
behind, seeing in this eventuality a means of escape. I was soon
overtaken and seized, plundered of my fifty ducats and everything else,
and dragged before the chief personage of the party--a son of the Shah,
on his way to become governor of Khorassan.

Kissing the ground before him, I related my story, and petitioned for
the return of my fifty ducats. The rogues who had taken the money were
brought before the prince, who ordered them to be bastinadoed until they
produced it. After a few blows they confessed, and gave up the ducats,
which were carried to the prince. He counted the money, put it under the
cushion on which he was reclining, and said loudly to me, "You are
dismissed."

"My money, where is it?" I exclaimed.

"Give him the shoe," said the prince to his master of the ceremonies,
who struck me over the mouth with the iron-shod heel of his slipper,
saying: "Go in peace, or you'll have your ears cut off."

"You might as well expect a mule to give up a mouthful of fresh grass,"
said an old muleteer to whom I told my misfortune, "as a prince to give
up money that has once been in his hands."

Reaching Meshed in a destitute state, I practised for a time the trade
of water-carrier, and then became an itinerant vendor of smoke. I was
not very scrupulous about giving my tobacco pure; and when one day the
_Mohtesib_, or inspector, came to me, disguised as an old woman, I gave
him one of my worst mixtures. Instantly he summoned half a dozen stout
fellows; my feet were noosed, and blow after blow was inflicted on them
until they were a misshapen mass of flesh and gore. All that I possessed
was taken from me, and I crawled home miserably on my hands and knees.

I felt I had entered Meshed in an unlucky hour, and determined to leave
it. Dressed as a dervish I joined a caravan for Tehran.


_II.--The Fate of the Lovely_


I at first resolved to follow the career of a dervish, tempted thereto
by the confidences of my companion, Dervish Sefer, who befriended me
after my unhappy encounter with the Mohtesib.

"With one-fiftieth of your accomplishments, and a common share of
effrontery," he told me, "you may command both the purses and the lives
of your hearers. By impudence I have been a prophet, by impudence I have
wrought miracles--by impudence, in short, I live a life of great ease."

But a chance came to me of stealing a horse, the owner of which
confessed he had himself stolen it; and by selling it I hoped to add to
the money I had obtained as a dervish, and thereby get into some
situation where I might gain my bread honestly. Unfortunately, when I
had reached Tehran, the real owner of the horse appeared. I was
compelled to refund to the dealer the money I had been paid for the
horse, and had some difficulty, when we went before the magistrate at
the bazaar, in proving that I was not a thief. I had heard that the
court poet, with whom I had formed a friendship during his captivity
among the Turcomans, had escaped and returned to Tehran. To him,
therefore, I repaired, and through his good offices I secured a post as
assistant to Mirza Ahmak, the king's chief physician.

Although the physician was willing to have my services, he was too
avaricious to pay me anything for them; and I would not have remained
long with him had I not fallen in love. In the heat of summer I made any
bed in the open air, in a corner of a terrace that overlooked an inner
court where the women's apartments were situated. I came presently to
exchanging glances with a beautiful Curdish slave. From glances we came
to conversation. At length, when Zeenab--for that was her name--was
alone in the women's apartments, she would invite me down from the
terrace, and we would spend long hours feasting and singing together.

But our felicity was destined to be interrupted. The Shah was about to
depart for his usual summer campaign, and, according to his wont, paid a
round of visits to noblemen, thereby reaping for himself a harvest of
presents. The physician, being reputed rich, was marked out as prey fit
for the royal grasp. The news of the honour to be paid him left him
half-elated at the distinction, half-trembling at the ruin that awaited
his finances. The Shah came with his full suite, dined gorgeously at my
master's expense, and, as is customary, visited the women's apartments.
Presently came the news that my master had presented the Shah with
Zeenab! She was to be trained as a dancing-girl, and was to dance before
the Shah on his return from the campaign.

When Zeenab was thus removed out of my reach, I had no inducement to
remain in the physician's service. I therefore sought and secured a post
as _nasakchi_, or officer of the chief executioner. I was now a person
of authority with the crowd, and used my stick so freely upon their
heads and backs that I soon acquired a reputation for courage. Nor did I
fail to note the advice given to me by my brother officers as to the
making of money by extortion--how an officer inflicts the bastinado
fiercely or gently according to the capacity of the sufferer to pay; how
bribes may be obtained from villages anxious not to have troops
quartered upon them, and so on. I lived in such an atmosphere of
violence and cruelty--I heard of nothing but slitting noses, putting out
eyes, and chopping men in two--that I am persuaded I could almost have
impaled my own father.

The chief executioner was a tall and bony man, extremely ferocious.
"Give me good hard fighting," he was accustomed to declare; "let me have
my thrust with the lance, and my cut with the sabre, and I want no more.
We all have our weaknesses--these are mine." This terrible man
accompanied the Shah in his campaign, and I and the others went along
with him, in the army that was to expel the Muscovite infidels from
Georgia. Having heard that the Muscovites were posted on the Pembaki
river, the chief executioner, with a large body of cavalry and infantry,
proceeded to advance upon them.

On reaching the river, we found two Muscovite soldiers on the opposite
bank. The chief put on a face of the greatest resolution. "Go, seize,
strike, kill!" he exclaimed. "Bring me their heads!"

Several men dashed into the river, but the Russians, firing steadily,
killed two of them, whereupon the rest retreated; nor could all the
chief's oaths, entreaties, and offers of money persuade anybody to go
forward.

While we were thus parleying, a shot hit the chief executioner's
stirrup, which awoke his fears to such a degree that he recalled his
troops, and himself rode hastily away, exclaiming, "Curses be on their
beards! Whoever fought after this fashion? Killing, killing, as if we
were so many hogs! They will not run away, do all you can to them. They
are worse than brutes! O Allah, Allah, if there was no dying in the
case, how the Persians would fight!"

On our return to the camp, a proclamation was issued announcing that an
army of 50,000 infidels had been vanquished by the all-victorious armies
of the Shah, that 10,000 of the dogs had given up their souls, and that
the prisoners were so many that the prices of slaves had diminished a
hundred per cent.

When we went back with the Shah to Tehran, a horrid event occurred which
plunged me in the greatest misery. I heard that Zeenab was ill, and
unable to dance before the Shah; and, knowing the royal methods of
treating unsatisfactory slaves, I feared greatly for the consequences.
My fears were warranted. I was ordered, with others, to wait below the
tower of the royal harem at midnight and bear away a corpse. We saw a
woman struggling with two men at the top of the tower. The woman was
flung over. We rushed forward. At my feet, in the death-agony, lay my
beloved Zeenab. I hung over her in the deepest despair; my feelings
could not be concealed from the ruffians around me.

I abandoned everything, and left Tehran next day determined to become a
real dervish, and spend the rest of my life in penitence and privations.


_III.--Among the Holy Men_


As I was preparing next night to sleep on the bare ground outside a
caravanserai--for I was almost destitute--I saw a horseman ride up whom
I recognised. It was one of the nasakchis who had assisted in the burial
of Zeenab. I had been betrayed, then; my love for the king's slave had
been revealed, and they were pursuing me.

I went into the caravanserai, sought out a friend--the dervish whom I
had known at Meshed--and asked his advice. "I can expect no mercy from
this man," I said, "particularly as I have not enough money to offer
him, for I know his price. Where shall I go?"

The dervish replied, "You must lose not a moment in getting within the
sanctuary of the tomb of Fatimeh at Kom. You can reach it before
morning, and then you will be safe even from the Shah's power."

"But how shall I live when I am there?" I asked.

"I shall soon overtake you, and then, Inshallah (please God), you will
not fare so ill as you imagine."

As the day broke, I could distinguish the gilt cupola of the tomb before
me; and as I perceived the horseman at some distance behind, I made all
possible speed until I had passed the gateway of the sanctuary. Kissing
the threshold of the tomb, I said my prayers with all the fervency of
one who has got safe from a tempest into port.

My friend the dervish arrived soon afterwards, and immediately urged
upon me the importance of saying my prayers, keeping fasts, and wearing
a long and mortified countenance. As he assured me that unless I made a
pretence of deep piety I should be starved or stoned to death, I assumed
forthwith the character of a rigid Mussulman. I rose at the first call,
made my ablutions at the cistern in the strictest forms, and then prayed
in the most conspicuous spot I could find.

By the intensity of my devotion I won the goodwill of Mirza Abdul
Cossim, the first _mashtehed_ (divine) of Persia, and by his influence I
obtained a pardon from the Shah. Now that I was free from the sanctuary,
I became anxious to gain some profit by my fame for piety; so I applied
to Mirza Abdul Cossim, who straightway sent me to assist the mollah
Nadân, one of the principal men of the law in Tehran. My true path of
advancement, I believed, was now open. I was on the way to become a
mollah.

Nadân was an exemplary Mussulman in all outward matters; but I was not
long in discovering that he had two ruling passions--jealousy of the
chief priest of Tehran, and a hunger for money. My earliest duty was to
gratify his second passion by negotiating temporary marriages for
handsome fees. In these transactions we prospered fairly well; but
unfortunately Nadân's desire to supplant the chief priest led him to
stir up the populace to attack the Christians of the city, and plunder
their property. The Shah was then in a humour to protect the Christians;
consequently, Nadân had his beard plucked out by the roots, was mounted
on an ass with his face to its tail, and was driven out of the city with
blows and execrations.

Once more homeless and almost penniless, not knowing what to do, I
strolled in the dusk into a bath, and undressed. The bath was empty save
for one man, whom I recognized as the chief priest. He was splashing
about in a manner that struck me as remarkable for so sedate a
character; then a most unusual floundering, attended with a gurgling of
the throat, struck my ear. To my horror, I saw that he was drowned. Here
was a predicament; it was inevitable that I should be charged with his
murder.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I bore a close resemblance to the dead
man. For an hour or two, at any rate, I might act as an impostor. So, in
the dim light, I dressed myself in the chief priest's clothes, and
repaired to his house.

I was there received by two young slaves, who paid me attentions that
would at most times have delighted me; but just then they filled me with
apprehension, and I was heartily glad when I got rid of the slaves and
fastened the door. I then explored the chief priest's pockets, and found
therein two letters. One was from the chief executioner--a notorious
drunkard--begging permission to take unlimited wine for his health's
sake. The other was from a priest at the mollah's village saying that he
had extracted from the peasantry one hundred tomauns (£80), which would
be delivered to a properly qualified messenger.

To the chief executioner I wrote cheerfully granting the permission he
sought, and suggesting that the loan of a well-caparisoned horse would
not be amiss. I wrote a note to the priest requesting that the money be
delivered to the bearer, our confidential Hajji Baba. Next morning I
rose early, and made certain alterations in the chief priest's clothes
so as to avoid detection. I went to the chief executioner's house,
presented the letter, and received the horse, upon which I rode hastily
away to the village. Having obtained the hundred tomauns I escaped
across the frontier to Bagdad.


_IV.--Hajji and the Infidels_


On reaching Bagdad, I sought the house of my old master, Osman Aga, long
since returned from his captivity, and through his assistance, and with
my hundred tomauns as capital, I was able to set up in business as a
merchant in pipe-sticks, and, having made myself as like as possible to
a native of Bagdad, I travelled in Osman Aga's company to
Constantinople. Having a complaint to make, I went to Mirza Ferouz,
Persian ambassador on a special mission to Constantinople.

"Your wit and manner are agreeable," he said to me; "you have seen the
world and its business; you are a man who can make play under another's
beard. Such I am in want of."

"I am your slave and your servant," I replied.

"Lately an ambassador came from Europe to Tehran," said Mirza Ferouz,
"saying he was sent, with power to make a treaty, by a certain
Boonapoort, calling himself Emperor of the French. He promised, that
Georgia should be reconquered for us from the Russians, and that the
English should be driven from India. Soon afterwards the English
infidels in India sent agents to impede the reception of the Frenchman.
We soon discovered that much was to be got between the rival curs of
uncleanness; and the true object of my mission here is to discover all
that is to be known of these French and English. In this you can help
me."

This proposal I gladly accepted, and went forth to interview a scribe of
the Reis Effendi with whom I had struck up a friendship. He told me that
Boonapoort was indeed a rare and daring infidel, who, from a mere
soldier, became the sultan of an immense nation, and gave the law to all
the Europeans.

"And is there not a tribe of infidels called Ingliz?" I asked.

"Yes, truly. They live in an island, are powerful in ships, and in
watches and broad-cloth are unrivalled. They have a shah, but it is a
farce to call him by that title. The power lies with certain houses full
of madmen, who meet half the year round for the purposes of quarrelling.
Nothing can be settled in the state, be it only whether a rebellious aga
is to have his head cut off and his property confiscated, or some such
trifle, until these people have wrangled. Let us bless Allah and our
Prophet that we are not born to eat the miseries of the poor English
infidels, but can smoke our pipes in quiet on the shores of our own
peaceful Bosphorus!"

I returned to my ambassador full of the information I had acquired;
daily he sent me in search of fresh particulars, and before long I felt
able to draw up the history of Europe that the Shah had ordered Mirza
Ferouz to provide. So well pleased was the ambassador with my labours,
that he announced his intention of taking me back to Persia and
continuing me in Government employ. To this I readily agreed, knowing
that, with the protection of men in office, I might show myself in my
own country with perfect safety.

On out return to Tehran we found an English ambassador negotiating a
treaty, the French having gone away unsuccessful. Owing to the knowledge
I had acquired of European affairs when at Constantinople, I was much
employed in these transactions with the infidels, and when I gained the
confidence of the grand vizier himself, destiny almost as much as
whispered that the buffetings of the world had taken their departure
from me.

The negotiations reached a difficult point, and threatened to break
down; neither the Persians nor the infidels would give way. I was sent
by the grand vizier on a delicate mission to the English ambassador. I
prevailed. I returned to the grand vizier with a sack of gold for him
and the promise of a diamond ring, and the treaty was signed.

It was decided to send an ambassador to England. Mirza Berouz was
appointed, and I was chosen as his first mirza, or secretary. What
pleased me most of all was that I was sent to Ispahan to raise part of
the money for the presents to be taken to England. Hajji Baba, the
barber's son, entered his native place as Mirza Hajji Baba, the Shah's
deputy, with all the parade of a man of consequence, and on a mission
that gave him unbounded opportunity of enriching himself. I found
myself, after all my misfortunes, at the summit of what, in my Persian
eyes, was perfect human bliss.

       *       *       *       *       *




DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY


The Way of the World


     David Christie Murray was born at West Bromwich, England,
     April 13, 1847, and began his journalistic career at
     Birmingham. In 1873 he moved to London and joined the staff of
     the "Daily News" and in 1878 he was correspondent of the
     "Times" and the "Scotsman" in the Russo-Turkish war. He now
     began to transfer his abundant experience of life to the pages
     of fiction. His first novel, "A Life's Atonement," was
     published in 1880, and was followed a year later by "Joseph's
     Coat." In "The Way of the World," published in 1884, his art
     as a story-teller and his keen observation of men and manners
     were displayed as strikingly as in any of his later works--
     several of which were written in collaboration with other
     authors. Altogether he produced over thirty volumes of short
     stories and novels single-handed. At the end of last century
     he emerged from his literary seclusion in Wales and became
     active in current affairs; he was one of the leading English
     champions of Dreyfus, and obtained the warm friendship of
     Emile Zola. He died on August 1, 1907.


_I.--The Upstart_


Your sympathies are requested for Mr. Bolsover Kimberley, a gentleman
embarrassed beyond measure.

Mr. Kimberley was thirty-five years of age. He was meek, and had no
features to speak of. His hair was unassuming, and his whiskers were too
shy to curl. He was a clerk in a solicitor's office in the town of
Gallowbay, and he seemed likely to live to the end of his days in the
pursuit of labours no more profitable or pretentious.

A cat may look at a king. A solicitor's clerk may love an earl's
daughter. It was an undeniable madness in Kimberley even to dream of
loving the Lady Ella Santerre. He knew perfectly well what a fool he
was; but he was in love for all that.

To Bolsover Kimberley, seated in a little room with a dingy red desk and
cobwebbed skylight, there entered Mr. Ragshaw, senior clerk to Messrs.
Begg, Batter, and Bagg, solicitors.

"My dear Mr. Kimberley," said Mr. Ragshaw, "allow me the honour of
shaking hands with you. I believe that I am the first bearer of good
news."

Mr. Kimberley turned pale.

"My firm, sir," pursued Mr. Ragshaw, "represented the trustees of the
late owner of the Gallowbay Estate, who died three months ago at the age
of twenty, leaving no known relatives. We instituted a search, which
resulted in the discovery of an indisputable title to the estate. Permit
me to congratulate you, sir--the estate is yours."

Bolsover Kimberley gasped, and his voice was harsh.

"How much?"

"The estate, sir, is now approximately valued at forty-seven thousand
per annum."

Kimberley lurched forward, and fell over in a dead faint. Mr. Ragshaw's
attentions restored him to his senses, and he drank a little water, and
sobbed hysterically.

When he had recovered a little, he arose weakly from the one office
chair, took off his office coat, rolled it up neatly, and put it in his
desk. Then he put on his walking coat and his hat and went out.

"Don't you think, Mr. Kimberley," asked Mr. Ragshaw, with profound
respect, "that a little something----"

They were outside the Windgall Arms, and Kimberley understood.

"Why, yes, sir," he said; "but I never keep it in the 'ouse, and having
had to pay a tailor's bill this week, I don't happen----"

"My _dear_ sir, allow me!" said Ragshaw, with genuine emotion.

The champagne, the dinner that followed, the interviews with pressmen,
the excitement and obsequiousness of everybody, conveyed to Kimberley's
mind, in a dizzy sort of a way, that he was somebody in the world, and
ought to be proud of it. But his long life of servitude, his shyness and
want of nerve, all weighed heavily upon him, and he was far from being
happy.

Mr. Begg, senior partner of Messrs. Begg, Batter, and Bagg, was sitting
in his office a day or two later when a clerk ushered in the Earl of
Windgall.

"What's this news about Gallowbay, Begg? Is it true?" asked the earl.

"It is certainly true," answered Begg.

"What sort of fellow is this Kimberley?"

"Well, he seems to be a shy little man, _gauche_, and--and--underbred,
even for his late position."

"That's a pity. I should like to see him," added the grey little
nobleman. "I suppose you will act for him as you did for poor young
Edward?"

Poor young Edward was the deceased minor whose early death had wrecked
the finest chances the Windgall family craft had ever carried.

"I suppose so," said Begg.

"I presume," said the earl, "that even if he wanted to call in his money
you could arrange elsewhere?"

"With regard to the first mortgage?" asked Mr. Begg. "Certainly."

"And what about the new arrangement?" asked the earl nervously.

"Impossible, I regret to say."

"Very well," returned the earl, with a sigh. "I suppose the timber must
go. If poor Edward had lived, it would all have been very different."

Next day, when Kimberley, preposterously overdressed and thoroughly
ashamed of himself, was trying to talk business in Mr. Begg's office,
the Earl of Windgall was announced. There was nothing in the world that
could have terrified him more. And when the father of his ideal love,
Lady Ella Santerre, shook him by the hand, he could only gasp and gurgle
in response. But the earl's manner gradually reassured him, and in a
little time he began to plume himself in harmless trembling vanity upon
sitting in the same room with a nobleman and a great lawyer.

"I am pleased to have met Mr. Kimberley," said the earl, in going; "and
I trust we shall see more of each other."

Mr. Kimberley flushed, and bowed in a violent flutter.

As the earl was driven homeward he could not help feeling that he was
engaged in a shameful enterprise. People would talk if he invited this
gilded little snob to Shouldershott Castle, and would know very well why
he was asked there. Let them talk.

"A million and a quarter!" said the poor peer. "And if I don't catch
him, somebody else will."

Meanwhile, Captain Jack Clare, an extremely popular young officer of
dragoons, was in the depths of despair. He was the younger brother of
Lord Montacute, whose family was poor; he loved Lady Ella Santerre,
whose family was still poorer. The heads of the families had forbidden
the match for financial reasons. He had stolen an interview with Ella,
and had found that she bowed to the decision of the seniors.

"It is all quite hopeless and impossible," she had said. "Good-bye,
Jack!"

As he rode dispiritedly away, he could not see, for the intervening
trees, that she was kneeling in the fern and crying.


_II.--A Peer in Difficulties_


The Lady Ella slipped an arm about her father's neck.

"You are in trouble, dear," she said. "Can I help you?"

"No," said the poor nobleman. "There's no help for it, Beggs says, and
they'll have to cut down the timber in the park. Poverty, my dear,
poverty."

This was a blow, and a heavy one.

"That isn't the worst of it," said Windgall, after a pause. "I am in the
hands of the Jews. A wretched Hebrew fellow says he _will_ have a
thousand pounds by this day week. He might as well ask me for a
million."

"The diamonds are worth more than a thousand pounds, dear," she said
gently.

"No, no, my darling," he answered. "I have robbed you of everything
already."

"You must take them, papa," she said in tender decision. She left him,
only to return in a few minutes' time with a dark shagreen case in her
hands. The earl paced about the room for a minute or two.

"I take these," he said at last, "in bitter unwillingness, because I
can't help taking them, my dear. I had best get the business over, Ella.
I will go up to town this afternoon."

During the whole of his journey the overdressed figure of Kimberley
seemed to stand before the embarrassed man, and a voice seemed to issue
from it. "Catch me, flatter me, wheedle me, marry me to one of your
daughters, and see the end of your woes." He despised himself heartily
for permitting the idea to enter his mind, but he could not struggle
against its intrusion.

Next day Kimberley entered his jewellers to consult him concerning a
scarf-pin. It was a bull-dog's head, carved in lava, and not quite
life-size. The eyes were rubies, the collar was of gold and brilliants.
This egregious jewel was of his own designing, and was of a piece with
his general notions of how a millionaire should attire himself.

As he passed through the door somebody leapt from a cab carrying
something in his hands, and jostled against him. He turned round
apologetically, and confronted the Earl of Windgall.

His lordship looked like a man detected in a theft, and shook hands with
a confused tremor.

"Can you spare me half an hour?" he asked. Then he handed the package to
the shop-man. "Take care of that," he stammered. "It is valuable. I will
call to-morrow."

That afternoon Kimberley accepted an invitation to stay at Shouldershott
Castle.

He was prodigiously flattered and fluttered. When he thought of being
beneath the same roof with Lady Ella, he flushed and trembled as he had
never done before.

"I shall see her," he muttered wildly to himself. "I shall see her in
the 'alls, the 'alls of dazzling light." It is something of a wonder
that he did not lose his mental balance altogether.

When he was daily in the presence of Ella, the little man's heart ached
with sweet anguish and helpless worship and desire. Yet before her he
was tongue-tied, incapable of uttering a consecutive sentence. With her
sister, Lady Alice Santerre, who had been the intended bride of the
deceased heir to the Gallowbay Estate, Kimberley felt on a different
footing. He had hardly ever been so much at ease with anybody in his
life as this young lady made him.

Kimberley's own anxious efforts at self-improvement, Lady Alice's
good-natured advice, and the bold policy of the earl, who persuaded him
to undergo the terrors of an election, and get returned to Parliament as
member for Gallowbay, gradually made the millionaire a more presentable
person. He learned how to avoid dropping his h's; but two vices were
incurable--the shyness and his appalling taste in dress.

The world, meanwhile, had guessed at the earl's motives in extending his
friendship to Kimberley, and the little man's name was knowingly linked
with that of Lady Alice. Kimberley came to hear what the world was
saying through meeting Mr. Blandy, his former employer. Mr. Blandy
invited him to his house, honoured the occasion with champagne, drank
freely of it, and became confidential.

"The noble earl'll nail you f' one o' the girls, Kimbly. I'm a lill bit
'fected when I think, seeing my dear Kimbly 'nited marriage noble
family. That's what makes me talk like this. I b'leeve you're gone coon
already, ole man. 'Gratulate you, allmy heart."

Kimberley went away in a degradation of soul. Was it possible that this
peer of the realm could be so coarsely and openly bent on securing him
and his money that the whole world should know of it? What had
Kimberley, he asked himself bitterly, to recommend him but his money?
But then, triumphing over his miseries, came the fancy--he could have
his dream of love; he had cried for the moon, and now he could have it.


_III.--Ella's Martyrdom_


The earl's liabilities amounted roughly to ninety thousand pounds. The
principal mortgagee was insisting upon payment or foreclosure, and there
was a general feeling abroad that the estate was involved beyond its
capacity to pay.

Kimberley learned these circumstances in an interview with Mr. Begg. A
few days afterwards he drove up desperately to the castle and asked for
a private interview with his lordship.

"My lord," he said, when they were alone, "I want to ask your lordship's
acceptance of these papers."

The earl understood them at a glance. Kimberley had bought his debts.

"I ask you to take them now," Kimberley went on, "before I say another
word."

He rose, walked to the fire, and dropped the papers on the smouldering
coal. The earl seized the papers and rescued them, soiled but unsinged.

"Kimberley," he said, "I dare not lay myself under such an obligation to
any man alive."

"They are yours, my lord," replied Kimberley. "I shall never touch them
again. You're under no obligation to me, my lord. But"--he blushed and
stammered--"I want to ask you for the hand of Lady Ella."

It took Windgall a full minute to pull himself together. He had schooled
himself to the trembling hope that Alice might be chosen; but Ella!
"Forgive me," he began, "I was unprepared--I was not altogether
unprepared--" Then he lapsed into silence.

"I will submit your proposal to my daughter," he said after a time,
"but--I am powerless--altogether powerless."

Kimberley went home in a tremor of nervous anxiety, and Windgall sent
for his daughter.

"I want you to understand, my dear," he began nervously, "that you are
free to act just as you will. Mr. Kimberley gave these into my hands
this morning"--showing her the papers. "He gave them freely, as a gift.
If I could accept them I should be free from the nightmare of debt. But
in the same breath with that unconditional gift, he asked me for your
hand in marriage."

She kept silence.

"You know our miserable necessities, Ella," he pleaded. "But I can't
force your inclinations in a matter like this, my dear."

She ran to him, and threw her arms about his neck.

"If it depends upon me to end your troubles, my dear, they are ended
already."

"Shall I," he asked lamely, "make Kimberley happy?"

She answered simply, "Yes."

Kimberley came to luncheon next day. Lady Ella gave him a hand like
marble, and he kissed it. Her father, anxious to preserve a seeming
satisfaction, put his arm about her waist and kissed her. Her cheek was
like ice and her whole figure trembled.

It was a dull, dreadful meal to all three who sat at table, and the
millionaire's heart was the heaviest and the sorest.

If Ella suffered, she had the consolation, so dear to the nobler sort of
women, that she was a sacrifice. If Windgall suffered, he had a solid
compensation locked in the drawers of his library table. But Kimberley
had no consolation, and knew only that he was expected somehow to be
happy, and was, in spite of his prosperous wooing, more miserable than
he had ever been before.

As time went on, Kimberley grew no happier. The gulf between Lady Ella
and himself had not been bridged by their betrothal. She was always
courteous to him, but always cold. She had accepted him, and yet----

The first inkling that something was wrong came through the altered
demeanour of Alice. The girl was furious at her father for sacrificing
her sister, and furious with her sister for consenting to the sacrifice;
her former half-humourous comradeship for Kimberley was changed into
chilly disdain.

The suspicions that were thus suggested to him were confirmed by a
meeting with Ella outside the castle lodge. As he approached, he caught
sight of her face as she was nodding a smiling good-bye to the old
gate-keeper. She saw Kimberley, and the smile fled from her face with so
swift a change, and left for a mere second something so like terror
there, that he could scarcely fail to notice it.

He returned home possessed with remorse and shame. There was no doubt
what the end should be. Ella must be released.

"She never cared about the money," he said, pacing the room with
tear-blotted face. "She wanted to save her father, and she was ready to
break her heart to do it. But she shall never break her heart through
me. No, no. What a fool I was to think she could ever be happy with a
man like me!"


_IV.--The Renunciation_


Jack Clare, with a heart burning with rage at what he deemed Ella's
treachery, had resigned his commission and bought an estate in New
Zealand with a sum of money that had been left him. He became possessed
of a desire to see Ella once more. He wrote to her that he was about to
start for New Zealand, and wished to say good-bye to her. This letter he
brought to the castle gate-keeper, and caused it to be taken to Ella.
Then he paced up and down the avenue, impatiently awaiting her.

Destiny ordained that Kimberley should come that way just then on his
fateful errand of releasing Ella from her engagement. As he entered the
park his resolve failed him; he wandered unhappily to and fro, until he
became aware of a strange gentleman prowling about the avenue in a
mighty hurry. The stranger caught sight of him.

"Pardon me," said Kimberley nervously, "have you lost your way?"

Jack eyed him from head to foot--the vulgar glories of his attire, the
extraordinary bull-dog pin. This, he guessed, was Kimberley--the man to
whom Ella had sold herself. He smiled bitterly, and turned on his heel.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Kimberley ruffled. "I did myself the
honour to address you."

"You pestilential little cad!" cried Jack, wheeling round and letting
out his wrath; "go home!"

"Cad, sir!" answered Kimberley in indignation.

"I call any man a cad, sir," answered Jack, "who goes about dressed like
that."

Jack walked on and Kimberley stood rooted to the ground. He was crushed
and overwhelmed beneath the sense of his own humiliation. His fineries
had been the one thing on which he had relied to make himself look like
a gentleman, and he knew now what they made him look like.

He retreated to a little arboured seat, and a few minutes later would
have given anything to escape from it. For he was a witness of the
parting of Jack and Ella. He saw the tears streaming from her eyes; he
heard Jack tell her that he had never loved another woman and never
would. As they clasped each other's hands for the final good-bye, Jack
seized her passionately and kissed her. Her head fell back from his
shoulder; she had fainted. He laid her down upon the grass, and looked
upon her in an agony of fear and self-reproach. Then his mood changed.

"Curse the man that broke her heart and mine!" he cried wildly.
"Darling, look up!"

Presently she recovered, and he begged her forgiveness.

"I am better," said Ella feebly. "Leave me now. Good-bye, dear!"

Soon afterwards a little man, with a tear-stained face and enormous
bull-dog scarf-pin, arrived at the castle, and asked in a breaking voice
to see his lordship.

"Did you know, my lord," he began, "that Lady Ella was breaking her
heart because she was to marry me?"

"Really--"

"You didn't know it? I should be glad to think you didn't. Perhaps in
spite of all I said, you thought I had bought those papers to have you
in my grasp. I am not a gentleman, my lord, but I hope I am above that.
I was a fool to think I could ever make Lady Ella happy, and I resign my
claim upon her hand, my lord, and I must leave your roof for ever."

"Stop, sir!" cried the earl, in a rage of embarrassment and despair. He
seemed face to face with the wreck of all his hopes. "Do you know that
this is an insult to my daughter and to me?"

"My lord," returned Kimberley, "I am very sorry, but it was a shame to
ask her to marry a man like me. I won't help to break her heart--I
can't--not if I break my own a million times over."

The earl beat his foot upon the carpet. It was true enough. It _had_
been a shame; and yet the man was a gentleman when all was said and
done.

"By heaven, Kimberley," cried his lordship, in spite of himself, "you
are a noble-hearted fellow!"

"Excuse me the trouble I have caused you. Good-bye, my lord." Kimberley
bowed and left.

That night Kimberley received a package containing the papers and a note
from the earl congratulating him on the magnanimous manner in which he
had acted, but declaring that he felt compelled to return the documents.
This added another drop to the bitterness of Kimberley's cup. He could
well nigh have died for shame; he could well nigh have died for pity of
himself.


_V.--Kimberley's Wedding Gift_


"My lord," said Kimberley, as he met the earl of Windgall outside the
London hotel where the earl was staying, "can you give me a very few
minutes?"

"Certainly," said his lordship. "You are not well?" he added, with
solicitude.

He had brought a dispatch-box with him; he put it on the table and
slowly unlocked it. The earl's heart beat violently as he looked once
more upon the precious documents.

"You sent these back to me," said Kimberley. "Will you take 'em now? My
lord, my lord, marry lady Ella to the man she loves, and take these for
a wedding gift. I helped to torture her. I have a right to help to make
her happy."

Windgall was as wildly agitated as Kimberley himself. He recoiled and
waved his hands.

"I--I do not think, Kimberley," he said with quivering lip, "that I have
ever known so noble an act before."

"If I die," said Kimberley in a loud voice which quavered suddenly down
into a murmur, "everything is to go to Lady Ella, with my dearest love
and worship."

Windgall caught only the first three words; he tugged at the bell-pull,
and sent for a doctor.

An hour afterwards Kimberley was in bed with brain fever.

On the following morning Jack Clare stood in the rain on the deck of the
steamship Patagonia, a travelling-cap pulled moodily over his eyes,
watching the bestowal of his belongings in the hold.

"Honourable Captain Clare aboard?" cried a voice from the quay. A
messenger came and handed Jack a letter. He saw with amazement that it
bore the Windgall crest.

It was a hastily written note from the earl stating that circumstances
had occurred which enabled him to withdraw his opposition to the union
of Clare with Lady Ella.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kimberley recovered. He can speak now to Clare's wife without
embarrassment and without pain. Has he forgotten his love? No. He will
never love again, never marry; but he is by no means unhappy or solitary
or burdened with regrets. And he knows that those for whom he made his
great sacrifice have given him their profoundest gratitude and sincerest
friendship.

The ways of the world are various and many. And along them travel all
sorts of people. Very dark grey, indeed--almost black some of
them--middling grey, light grey, and here and there a figure that shines
with a pure white radiance.

       *       *       *       *       *




FRANK NORRIS


The Pit


     Frank Norris, one of the most brilliant of contemporary
     American novelists, was born at Chicago in 1870. He was
     educated at the University of California and at Harvard, and
     also spent three years as an art student in Paris. Afterwards
     he adopted journalism, and served in the capacity of war
     correspondent for various newspapers. His first novel,
     "McTeague," a virile, realistic romance, brought him instant
     recognition. This was followed in 1900 by "Moran of the Lady
     Betty," a romantic narrative of adventures on the Californian
     Coast. In 1901 Norris conceived the idea of trilogy of novels
     dealing with wheat, the object being an arraignment of wheat
     operations at Chicago, and the consequent gambling with the
     world's food-supply. The first of the series, "The Octopus,"
     deals with wheat raising and transportation; the second, "The
     Pit," a vigorous, human story covers wheat-exchange gambling,
     and appeared in 1903; the third, which was to have been
     entitled "The Wolf," was cut short by the author's death,
     which occurred on October 25, 1902.


_I.--Curtis Jadwin and His Wife_


Laura Dearborn's native town was Barrington, in Massachusetts. Both she
and her younger sister Page had lived there until the death of their
father. The mother had died long before, and of all their relations,
Aunt Wess, who lived at Chicago, alone remained. It was at the
entreaties of Aunt Wess and of their dearest friends, the Cresslers,
that the two girls decided to live with their aunt in Chicago. Both
Laura and Page had inherited money, and when they faced the world they
had the assurance that, at least, they were independent.

Chicago, the great grey city, interested Laura at every instant and
under every condition. The life was tremendous. All around, on every
side, in every direction, the vast machinery of commonwealth clashed and
thundered from dawn to dark, and from dark to dawn. For thousands of
miles beyond its confines the influence of the city was felt. At times
Laura felt a little frightened at the city's life, and of the men for
whom all the crash of conflict and commerce had no terrors. Those who
could subdue this life to their purposes, must they not be themselves
terrible, pitiless, brutal? What could women ever know of the life of
men, after all?

Her friend, Mr. Cressler, who had been almost a second father to her,
was in business, and had once lost a fortune by a gamble in wheat; and
there was Mr. Curtis Jadwin, whom she had met at the opera with the
Cresslers.

Mrs. Cressler had told Laura, very soon after her arrival in Chicago,
that Mr. Jadwin wanted to marry her.

"I've known Curtis Jadwin now for fifteen years--nobody better," said
Mrs. Cressler. "He's as old a family friend as Charlie and I have. And I
tell you the man is in love with you. He told me you had more sense and
intelligence than any girl he had ever known, and that he never
remembered to have seen a more beautiful woman. What do you think of
him, Laura--of Mr. Jadwin?"

"I don't know," Laura answered. "I thought he was a _strong_
man--mentally, and that he would be kindly and generous. But I saw very
little of him."

"Jadwin struck you as being a kindly man, a generous man? He's just
that, and charitable. You know, he has a Sunday-school over on the West
side--a Sunday-school for mission children--and I do believe he's more
interested in that than in his business. He wants to make it the biggest
Sunday-school in Chicago. It's an ambition of his. Laura," she
exclaimed, "he's a _fine man_. No one knows Curtis Jadwin better than
Charlie and I, and we just _love_ him. The kindliest, biggest-hearted
fellow. Oh, well, you'll know him for yourself, and then you'll see!"

"I don't know anything about him," Laura had remarked in answer to this.
"I never heard of him before the theatre party."

But Mrs. Cressler promptly supplied information. Curtis Jadwin was a man
about thirty-five, who had begun life without a _sou_ in his pockets.
His people were farmers in Michigan, hardy, honest fellows, who ploughed
and sowed for a living. Curtis had only a rudimentary schooling, and had
gone into business with a livery-stable keeper. Someone in Chicago owed
him money, and, in default of payment, had offered him a couple of lots
of ground on Wabash Avenue. That was how he happened to come to Chicago.
Naturally enough, as the city grew the Wabash Avenue property increased
in value. He sold the lots, and bought other real estate; sold that, and
bought somewhere else, and so on till he owned some of the best business
sites in the city, and was now one of the largest real-estate owners in
Chicago. But he no longer bought and sold. His property had grown so
large, that just the management of it alone took up most of his time. As
a rule, he deplored speculation. He had no fixed principles about it,
and occasionally he hazarded small operations.

It was after this that Laura's first aversion to the great grey city
fast disappeared, and she saw it in a kindlier aspect.

Soon it was impossible to deny that Curtis Jadwin--"J" as he was called
in business--was in love with her. The business man, accustomed to deal
with situations with unswerving directness, was not in the least afraid
of Laura. He was aggressive, assertive, and his addresses had all the
persistence and vehemence of veritable attack. He contrived to meet her
everywhere, and even had the Cresslers and Laura over to his mission
Sunday-school for the Easter festival, an occasion of which Laura
carried away a confused recollection of enormous canvas mottoes, sheaves
of lilies, imitation bells of tinfoil, revival hymns vociferated from
seven hundred distended mouths, and through it all the smell of poverty,
the odour of uncleanliness, that mingled strangely with the perfume of
the lilies.

Somehow Laura found that with Jadwin all the serious, all the sincere,
earnest side of her character was apt to come to the front.

Yet for a long time Laura could not make up her mind that she loved him,
but "J" refused to be dismissed.

"I told him I did not love him. Only last week I told him so," Laura
explained to Mrs. Cressler.

"Well, then, why did you promise to marry him?"

"My goodness! You don't realise what it's been. Do you suppose you can
say 'no' to that man?"

"Of course not--of course not!" declared Mrs. Cressler joyfully. "That's
'J' all over. I might have known he'd have you if he set out to do it."

They were married on the last day of June of that summer in the
Episcopalian church. Immediately after the wedding the couple took the
train for Geneva Lake, where Jadwin had built a house for his bride.


_II.--A Corner in Wheat_


The months passed. Soon three years had gone by since the ceremony in
St. James's Church, and all that time the price of wheat had been
steadily going down. Heavy crops the world over had helped the decline.

Jadwin had been drawn into the troubled waters of the Pit, and was by
now "blooded to the game." It was in April that he decided that better
times and higher prices were coming for wheat, and announced his
intentions to Sam Gretry, his broker.

"Sam," he said, "the time is come for a great big chance. We've been
hammering wheat down and down and down till we've got it below the cost
of production, and now she won't go any further with all the hammering
in the world. The other fellows, the rest of the bear crowd, don't seem
to see it; but I see it. Before fall we're going to have higher prices.
Wheat is going up, and when it does I mean to be right there. I'm going
to _buy_. I'm going to buy September wheat, and I'm going to buy it
to-morrow--500,000 bushels of it; and if the market goes as I think it
will later on, I'm going to buy more. I'm going to boost this market
right through till the last bell rings, and from now on Curtis Jadwin
spells b-u-double l--bull."

"They'll slaughter you," said Gretry; "slaughter you in cold blood.
You're just one man against a gang--a gang of cut-throats. Those bears
have got millions and millions back of them. 'J,' you are either
Napoleonic, or--or a colossal idiot!"

All through the three years that had passed Jadwin had grown continually
richer. His real estate appreciated in value; rents went up. Every time
he speculated in wheat it was upon a larger scale, and every time he
won. Hitherto he had been a bear; now, after the talk with Gretry, he
had secretly "turned bull" with the suddenness of a strategist.

A marvellous golden luck followed Jadwin all that summer. The crops were
poor, the yield moderate.

Jadwin sold out in September, having made a fortune, and then, in a
single vast clutch, bought 3,000,000 bushels of the December option.

Never before had he ventured so deeply into the Pit.

One morning in November, at breakfast, Laura said to her husband,
"Curtis, dear, when is it all going to end--your speculating? You never
used to be this way. It seems as though, nowadays, I never had you to
myself. Even when you are not going over papers and reports, or talking
by the hour to Mr. Gretry in the library, your mind seems to be away
from me. I--I am lonesome, dearest, sometimes. And, Curtis, what is the
use? We're so rich now we can't spend our money."

"Oh, it's not the money!" he answered. "It's the fun of the thing--the
excitement."

That very week Jadwin made 500,000 dollars.

"I don't own a grain of wheat now," he assured his wife. "I've got to be
out of it."

But try as he would, the echoes of the rumbling of the Pit reached
Jadwin at every hour of the day and night. He stayed at home over
Christmas. Inactive, he sat there idle, while the clamour of the Pit
swelled daily louder, and the price of wheat went up.

Jadwin chafed and fretted at his inaction and his impatience harried him
like a gadfly. Would no one step into the place of high command.

Very soon the papers began to speak of an unknown "bull" clique who were
rapidly coming into control of the market, and it was no longer a secret
to Laura that her husband had gone back to the market, and that, too,
with such an impetuosity that his rush had carried him to the very heart
of the turmoil.

He was now deeply involved; his influence began to be felt. Not an
important move on the part of the "unknown bull," the nameless,
mysterious stranger, that was not noted and discussed.

It was very late in the afternoon of a lugubrious March day when Jadwin
and Gretry, in the broker's private room, sat studying the latest
Government reports as to the supply of wheat, and Jadwin observed, "Why,
Sam, there's less than 100,000,000 bushels in the farmers' hands. That's
awfully small."

"It ain't, as you might say, colossal," admitted Gretry.

"Sam," said Jadwin again, "the shipments have been about 5,000,000 a
week; 20,000,000 a month, and it's four months before a new crop. Europe
will take 80,000,000 out of the country. I own 10,000,000 now. Why,
there ain't going to be any wheat left in Chicago by May! If I get in
now, and buy a long line of cash wheat, where are all these fellows
going to get it to deliver to me? Say, where are they going to get it?
Come on, now, tell me, where are they going to get it?"

Gretry laid down his pencil, and stared at Jadwin.

"'J,'" he faltered, "'J,' I'm blest if I know."

And then, all in the same moment, the two men were on their feet.

Jadwin sprang forward, gripping the broker by the shoulder.

"Sam," he shouted, "do you know----Great God! Do you know what this
means? Sam, we can corner the market!"


_III.--The Corner Breaks_


The high prices meant a great increase of wheat acreage. In June the
preliminary returns showed 4,000,000 more acres under wheat in the two
states of Dakota alone, and in spite of all Gretry's remonstrances,
Jadwin still held on, determined to keep up prices to July.

But now it had become vitally necessary for Jadwin to sell out his
holdings. His "long line" was a fearful expense; insurance and storage
charges were eating rapidly into the profits. He _must_ get rid of the
load he was carrying little by little.

A month ago, and the foreign demand was a thing almost insensate. There
was no question as to the price. It was, "Give us the wheat, at whatever
figure, at whatever expense."

At home in Chicago Jadwin was completely master of the market. His
wealth increased with such rapidity that at no time was he able even to
approximate the gains that accrued to him because of his corner. It was
more than twenty million, and less than fifty million. That was all he
knew.

It was then that he told Gretry he was going to buy in the July crops.

"' J,' listen to me," said Gretry. "Wheat is worth a dollar and a half
to-day, and not one cent more. If you run it up to two dollars--"

"It will go there of itself, I tell you."

"If you run it up to two dollars it will be that top-heavy that the
littlest kick in the world will knock it over. Be satisfied now with
what you've, got. Suppose the price does break a little, you'd still
make your pile. But swing this deal over into July, and it's ruin. The
farmers all over the country are planting wheat as they've never planted
it before. Great Scott, 'J,' you're fighting against the earth itself."

"Well, we'll fight it then."

"Here's another point," went on Gretry. "You ought to be in bed this
very minute. You haven't got any nerves left at all. You acknowledge you
don't sleep. You ought to see a doctor."

"Fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Jadwin. "I'm all right. Haven't time to see a
doctor."

So the month of May drew to its close, and as Jadwin beheld more and
more the broken speculators, with their abject humility, a vast contempt
for human nature grew within him. The business hardened his heart, and
he took his profits as if by right of birth.

His wife he saw but seldom. Occasionally they breakfasted together; more
often they met at dinner. But that was all.

And now by June 11 the position was critical.

"The price broke to a dollar and twenty yesterday," said Gretry. "Just
think, we were at a dollar and a half a little while ago."

"And we'll be at two dollars in another ten days, I tell you."

"Do you know how we stand, 'J'?" said the broker gravely. "Do you know
how we stand financially? It's taken pretty nearly every cent of our
ready money to support this July market. Oh, we can figure out our paper
profits into the millions. We've got thirty, forty, fifty million
bushels of wheat that's worth over a dollar a bushel; but if we can't
sell it we're none the better off--and that wheat is costing us six
thousand dollars a day. Where's the money going to come from, old man?
You don't seem to realise that we are in a precarious condition. The
moment we can't give our boys buying orders, the moment we admit that we
can't buy all the wheat that's offered, there's the moment we bust."

"Well, we'll buy it," cried Jadwin. "I'll show those brutes. I'll
mortgage all my real estate, and I'll run up wheat so high before the
next two days that the Bank of England can't pull it down; then I'll
sell our long line, and with the profits of that I'll run it up again.
Two dollars! Why, it will be two-fifty before you know how it happened."

That day Jadwin placed as heavy a mortgage as the place would stand upon
every piece of real estate that he owned. He floated a number of
promissory notes, and taxed his credit to its farthest stretch. But sure
as he was of winning, Jadwin could, not bring himself to involve his
wife's money in the hazard, though his entire personal fortune swung in
the balance.

Jadwin knew the danger. The new harvest was coming in--the new harvest
of wheat--huge beyond all possibility of control; so vast that no money
could buy it. And from Liverpool and Paris cables had come in to Gretry
declining to buy wheat, though he had offered it cheaper than he had
ever done before.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the morning of June 13, Gretry gave his orders to young Landry Court
and his other agents in the Pit, to do their best to keep the market up.
"You can buy each of you up to half a million bushels apiece. If that
don't keep the price up--well, I'll let you know what to do. Look here,
keep your heads cool. I guess to-day will decide things."

In the Pit roar succeeded roar. It seemed that a support long thought to
be secure was giving way. Not a man knew what he or his neighbour was
doing. The bids leaped to and fro, and the price of July wheat could not
so much as be approximated.

Landry caught one of the Gretry traders by the arm.

"What shall we do?" he shouted. "I've bought up to my limit. No more
orders have come in. What's to be done?"

"I don't know," the other shouted back--"I don't know! Looks like a
smash; something's gone wrong."

In Gretry's office Jadwin stood hatless and pale. Around him were one of
the heads of a great banking house and a couple of other men,
confidential agents, who had helped to manipulate the great corner.

"It's the end of the game," Gretry exclaimed, "you've got no more money!
Not another order goes up to that floor."

"It's a lie!" Jadwin cried, "keep on buying, I tell you! Take all
they'll offer. I tell you we'll touch the two dollar mark before noon."

"It's useless, Mr. Jadwin," said the banker quietly, "You were
practically beaten two days ago."

But Jadwin was beyond all appeal. He threw off Gretry's hand.

"Get out of my way!" he shouted. "Do you hear? I'll play my hand alone
from now on."

"'J,' old man--why, see here!" Gretry implored, still holding him by the
arm. "Here, where are you going?"

Jadwin's voice rang like a trumpet-call:

"_Into the Pit!_ If you won't execute my orders I'll act myself. I'm
going into the Pit, I tell you!"

"'J,' you're mad, old fellow! You're ruined--don't you
understand?--you're ruined!"

"Then God curse you, Sam Gretry, for the man who failed me in a crisis!"
And, as he spoke, Curtis Jadwin struck the broker full in the face.

Gretry staggered back from the blow. His pale face flashed to crimson
for an instant, his fists clenched; then his hands fell to his sides.

"No," he said; "let him go--let him go. The man is merely mad!"

Jadwin thrust the men who tried to hold him to one side, and rushed from
the room.

"It's the end," Gretry said simply. He wrote a couple of lines, and
handed the note to the senior clerk. "Take that to the secretary of the
board at once."

Straight into the turmoil and confusion of the Pit, into the scene of so
many of his victories, came the "Great Bull." The news went flashing and
flying from lip to lip. The wheat Pit, torn and tossed and rent asunder,
stood dismayed, so great had been his power. What was about to happen?
Jadwin himself, the great man, in the Pit! Had his enemies been too
premature in their hope of his defeat? For a second they hesitated, then
moved by a common impulse, feeling the push of the wonderful new harvest
behind them, gathered themselves together for the final assault, and
again offered the wheat for sale--offered it by thousands upon thousands
of bushels.

Blind and insensate, Jadwin strove against the torrent of the wheat.
Under the stress and violence of the hour, something snapped in his
brain; but he stood erect there in the middle of the Pit, iron to the
end, proclaiming over the din of his enemies, like a bugle sounding to
the charge of a forlorn hope.

"Give a dollar for July--give a dollar for July!"

Then little by little the tumult of the Pit subsided. There were sudden
lapses in the shouting, and again the clamour would break out.

All at once the Pit, the entire floor of the Board of Trade, was struck
dumb. In the midst of the profound silence the secretary announced. "All
trades with Gretry & Co. must be closed at once!"

The words were greeted with a wild yell of exultation. Beaten--beaten at
last, the Great Bull! Smashed! The great corner smashed! Jadwin busted!
Cheer followed cheer, hats went into the air. Men danced and leaped in a
frenzy of delight.

Young Landry Court, who had stood by Jadwin in the Pit, led his defeated
captain out. Jadwin was in a daze--he saw nothing, heard nothing, but
submitted to Landry's guidance.

From the Pit came the sound of dying cheers.

"They can cheer now all they want. _They didn't do it,"_ said a man at
the door. "It was the wheat itself that beat him; no combination of men
could have done it."


_IV.--A Fresh Start_


The evening had closed in wet and misty, and when Laura Jadwin came down
to the dismantled library a heavy rain was falling.

"There, dear," Laura said, "now sit down on the packing-box there. You
had better put your hat on. It is full of draughts now that the
furniture and curtains are out. You've had a pretty bad siege of it, you
know, and this is only the first week you've been up."

"I've had too good a nurse," he answered, stroking her hand, "not to be
as fit as a fiddle by now. You must be tired yourself, Laura. Why, for
whole days there--and nights, too, they tell me--you never left the
room."

Laura shook her head, and said:

"I wonder what the West will be like. Do you know I think I am going to
like it, Curtis?"

"It will be starting in all over again, old girl. Pretty hard at first,
I'm afraid."

"Hard--now?" She took his hand and laid it to her cheek.

"By all the rules you ought to hate me," he began. "What have I done for
you but hurt you, and at last bring you to----"

But she shut her gloved-hand over his mouth.

"The world is all before us where to choose, now, isn't it?" she
answered. "And this big house and all the life we have led in it was
just an incident in our lives--an incident that is closed."

"We're starting all over again, honey.... Well, there's the carriage, I
guess."

They rose, gathering up their valises.

"Ho!" said Jadwin. "No servants now, Laura, to carry our things down for
us and open the door; and it's a hack, old girl, instead of the
victoria."

"What if it is?" she cried. "What do servants, money, and all amount to
now?"

As Jadwin laid his hand upon the knob of the front door, he all at once
put down his valise and put his arm about his wife. She caught him about
the neck, and looked deep into his eyes a long moment, and then, without
speaking, they kissed each other.

       *       *       *       *       *




GEORGES OHNET


The Ironmaster


     Georges Ohnet, one of the most prolific and popular of French
     novelists and playwrights, was born in Paris on April 3, 1848.
     His father was an architect, and, after a period devoted to
     the study of law, Georges Ohnet adopted a journalistic career.
     He first came into prominence as the part-author of the drama
     "Regina Sarpi," in 1875. "The Ironmaster, or Love and Pride,"
     was originally conceived as a play, and as such was submitted
     in vain to the theatrical managers of Paris. It was entitled
     "Marrying for Money" ("Les Mariages d'Argent") and on its
     rejection he laid it aside and directed his attention to the
     novel, "Serge Panine." This was immediately successful, and
     was crowned with honour by the French Academy. Its author
     adapted it as a play, and then, in 1883, did the opposite with
     "Les Manages d'Argent," calling it "Le Maitre de Forges." As a
     novel, "The Ironmaster," with its dramatic plot and strong,
     moving story, attracted universal attention, and has been
     translated into several European languages.


_I.--The Faithless Lover_


The Château de Beaulieu, in the Louis XIII. style, is built of white
stone with red brick dressings. A broad terrace more than five hundred
yards long, with a balustrade in red granite, and decked with parterres
of flowers, becomes a delightful walk in autumn. M. Derblay's ironworks
may have somewhat spoilt the beauty of the landscape, but Beaulieu
remains a highly covetable estate.

Madame de Beaulieu sat in the drawing-room knitting woollen hoods for
the children in the village, while her daughter Claire contemplated,
without seeing it, the admirable horizon before her. At last, turning
her beautiful, sad face to her mother, she asked, "How long is it since
we have had any letters from St. Petersburg?"

"Come," said the marchioness, taking hold of Claire's hands--"come, why
do you always think about that, and torture your mind so?"

"What can I think of," answered Claire bitterly, "but of my betrothed?
And how can I avoid torturing my mind as you say, in trying to divine
the reason of his silence?"

"I own it is difficult to explain," rejoined the marchioness. "After
spending a week with us last year, my nephew, the Duc de Bligny, started
off promising to return to Paris during the winter. He next began by
writing that political complications detained him at his post. Summer
came, but not the duke. Here now is autumn, and Gaston no longer even
favours us with pretences. He does not even trouble to write."

"But supposing he were ill?" Claire ventured to say.

"That is out of the question," replied the marchioness pitilessly. "The
embassy would have informed us. You may be sure he is in perfect health,
and that he led the cotillon all last winter in the ball-rooms of St.
Petersburg."

Claire, forcing herself to smile, said, "It must be confessed, mother,
he is not jealous, and yet I have been courted wherever I have gone, and
am scarcely allowed to remain in peace, even in this desert of Beaulieu.
It would seem I have attracted the attention of our neighbour the
ironmaster."

"Monsieur Derblay?"

"Yes, mother; but his homage is respectful, and I have no cause to
complain of him. I only mentioned him as an example--as one of many. The
duke stays away, and I remain here alone, patient and--"

"And you act very wrongly!" exclaimed the marchioness.

The opportunity of easing her mind was not to be lost, and she told
Claire that if the marriage ever did take place she feared there would
be cause for regret. But her daughter's violent emotion made her realise
more forcibly than ever how deeply and firmly Claire was attached to the
Due de Bligny. So she assured her she had heard nothing fresh about him,
and hoped they might have news from the De Prefonts, who were to arrive
that day from Paris.

"Ah!" interrupted Mdlle. de Beaulieu, "here is Octave coming with
Monsieur Bachelin, the notary." And she went to meet them, looking the
living incarnation of youth in all its grace and vigour.

"You have had good sport, it seems," she said, waylaying her brother,
and feeling the weight of his game-bag.

"Oh, I'll be modest. This game was not killed by me," answered the
marquis; and explained that he had lost his way on the Pont Avesnes
land, and had been rather haughtily accosted by another sportsman, who,
however, as soon as he heard his name, became very polite, and forced
him to accept the contents of his own bag.

Maitre Bachelin immediately informed them that this must have been the
ironmaster himself, whom he had been to see that morning, and all
questions at issue about the boundaries of the estates were as good as
settled.

"For," said he, "my worthy friend accepts whatever conditions you may
lay down. The only point now is to sign the preliminaries, and with this
object Monsieur Derblay proposes to call at Beaulieu with his sister,
Mile. Suzanne; that is, if you are pleased to authorise him, Madame la
Marquise."

"Oh, certainly. Let him come by all means. I shall be glad to see this
Cyclops, who is blackening all the valley. But come, you have, no doubt,
brought me some fresh documents in reference to our English lawsuit."

"Yes, Madame la Marquise, yes," rejoined Bachelin, with an appealing
look. "We will talk business if you desire it."

Without asking any questions, Claire and the marquise gave their mother
a smile, and left the drawing-room.

"Well, Bachelin, have the English courts decided? Is the action lost?"

The notary lacked courage to reply in words, but his gesture was
sufficient. The marchioness bit her lips, and a tear glittered for a
moment.

"Ah!" said the notary. "It is a terrible blow for the house of
Beaulieu."

"Terrible indeed," said the marchioness; "for it implies my son's and my
daughter's ruin. Misfortunes seldom come singly," she resumed. "I
suppose you have some other bad news for me, Bachelin. Tell me
everything. You have news of the Duc de Bligny?"

"For the last six weeks M. le Duc de Bligny has been in Paris."

"He is aware of the misfortune that has overtaken us?"

"He knew of it one of the first, Madame la Marquise."

The marchioness was grieved more cruelly by this than by the money loss;
and the notary was thus emboldened to tell her that a gallant friend of
his, M. Derblay, whose father had been kind enough to call Maitre
Bachelin his friend, had fallen passionately in love with Mdlle. de
Beaulieu, and would be the happiest man in the world if he were even
allowed to hope. He advised the marchioness not to say anything at
present to her daughter. Maybe the duke would return to more honourable
feelings, and it would always be time enough for Mdlle. Claire to
suffer."

"You are right; but, at all events, I must inform my son of this blow
that strikes him."

Octave was not surprised, but affectionately taking his mother's hand,
said, "My only concern was for my sister, whose dowry was at stake. You
must leave her the part of your fortune you were reserving for me. Don't
you think, mother, that our cousin De Bligny's silence has some
connection with the loss of this lawsuit?"

"You are mistaken, child," cried the marchioness eagerly. "For the
duke----"

"Oh, fear nothing, mother," said Octave. "If Gaston hesitates now that
Mdlle. de Beaulieu no longer comes to him with a million in either hand,
we are not, I fancy, the sort of folk to seize him by the collar and
compel him to keep his promises."

"Well said, my son," cried the marchioness.

Bachelin took respectful leave of his noble clients, and hurried off to
Pont Avesnes as fast as his legs could carry him.


_II.--M. Derblay's Passion_


It was really M. Derblay whom the Marquis de Beaulieu had met in the
woods of Pont Avesnes. Letting Octave call after him as loud as he
liked, he hurried on through the woods. Chance had brought him nearer to
the woman he adored from afar, in a dream as it were, and his heart was
full of joy. He, Philippe, might approach her--he would be able to speak
to her. But at the thought of the Duc de Bligny, a feeling of deep
sadness overcame him, and his strength waned.

He recalled to mind all the exploits of his life, and asked himself if,
in virtue of the task he had accomplished, he were not really deserving
of happiness. After very brilliant studies, he had left the polytechnic
school with first honours, and had chosen the state mining service when
the Franco-German war had broken out. He was then two-and-twenty, and
had just obtained an appointment, but at once enlisted as a volunteer.
He served with distinction, and when at last he started for home he wore
on his breast the ribbon of the Legion of Honour. He found the house in
mourning. His mother had just died, and his little sister, Suzanne, just
seven years old, clung to him with convulsive tenderness. Within six
months his father also died, leaving his affairs in a most confused
state.

Philippe renounced the brilliant career as an engineer already chalked
out before him, and that his sister might not be dowerless, became a
manufacturer. In seven years he had liquidated the paternal inheritance;
his property was really his own, and he felt capable of greatly
extending his enterprises. Popular in the district, he might come
forward at the elections to be returned as a deputy. Who knew? Hope
revived in Philippe Derblay's heart.

After a long talk with Maitre Bachelin, he, on considering the
situation, felt it was not unfavourable to his hopes. When he presented
himself at Beaulieu, the marchioness received him kindly, and, touching
Suzanne's fair hair with her lips, "There is peace signed on this
child's forehead," said she. "All your sins are forgiven you, neighbour.
And now come and let me introduce you to the family."

A burning flush suffused Philippe's face, and he bowed low before the
girl he adored.

"Why, he's a gentleman, dear!" whispered the baroness to Claire. "And
think, I pictured him with a leather apron! Why, he's decorated, and the
baron isn't! He's really very good-looking, and his eyes are superb!"

Claire looked at him almost sternly. The contrast was complete between
him and Bligny, far away. Philippe was relieved to find the Baron de
Préfont present; he had read a treatise of his, which delighted the
baron, who at once became very friendly, and insisted on visiting the
ironworks. Only Claire remained frigid and indifferent, and this on his
second visit, instead of disconcerting the ironmaster, only irritated
him; and the more she pretended to ignore him the more determined he
became to compel her to notice him. They were all on the terrace when
Monsieur and Mademoiselle Monlinet were announced.

"What can these people want?" said Madame de Beaulieu.

Monsieur Monlinet was a wealthy tradesman, who had just bought the
Château de la Varenne, near by. His daughter had been at school with
Claire and the Baroness de Préfont, and a bitter warfare was waged
incessantly between the juvenile aristocrats and the monied damsels
without handles to their names. All recollections of Athénais had faded
from Claire's mind, but hatred was still rife in Mlle. Monlinet's heart;
and when her father, in view of her marriage, bought La Varenne for her,
the château was a threatening fortress, whence she might pounce down on
her enemy.

Now she advanced towards Mlle, de Beaulieu when she entered the
drawing-room at Beaulieu and threw her arms round her neck, and boldly
exclaimed, "Ah, my beautiful Claire! How happy am I to see you!"

This young person had wonderfully improved, had become very pretty, and
now paralysed her adversaries by her audacity. She soon contrived to
leave the others, and when alone with Claire informed her she had come
to beg for advice respecting her marriage.

Mlle, de Beaulieu instantly divined what her relatives had been hiding
so carefully, and though she became very pale while Athénais looked at
her in fiendish delight, she determined to die rather than own her love
for Gaston, and exerted all her will to master herself. The noise of a
furious gallop resounded, and the Duc de Bligny dashed into the
courtyard on a horse white with foam. He would have entered the
drawing-room, but the baron hindered him, while Maître Bachelin went to
ask if he might be received.

Claire wore a frightful expression of anger.

"Be kind enough"--she turned to Bachelin--"to ask the duke to go round
to the terrace and wait a moment. Don't bring him in till I make you a
sign from the window; but, in the meantime, send M. Derblay to me."

The marchioness and the baroness immediately improvided a
_mise-en-scéne,_ so that when the duke entered, he perceived the
marchioness seated as usual in her easy chair, the baroness standing
near the chimney-piece, and Claire with her back to the light. He bowed
low before the noble woman who had been his second mother.

"Madame la Marquise," he said, "my dear aunt, you see my emotion--my
grief! Claire, I cannot leave this room till you have forgiven me!"

"But you owe me no explanation, duke," Claire said, with amazing
serenity; "and you need no forgiveness. I have been told you intend to
marry. You had the right to do so, it seems to me. Were you not as free
as myself?"

Thereupon, approaching the doorway, she made a sign to Philippe. Athénais
boldly followed the ironmaster.

"I must introduce you to one another, gentlemen. Monsieur le Duc de
Bligny--my cousin." Then, turning towards her faithless lover, and
defying him, as it were, with her proud gaze, she added, "Duke, Monsieur
Derblay, my future husband."


_III.--The Ironmaster's Disappointment_


Touched by the disinterested delicacy of M. Derblay, the marchioness
sanctioned her daughter's sudden determination without anxiety. In her
mother's presence, Claire showed every outward sign of happiness, but
her heart became bitter and her mind disturbed, and nought remained of
the noble, tender-hearted Claire.

Her only object now was to avenge herself on Athénais and humiliate the
duke; and the preparations for the wedding were carried on with
incredible speed. Left ignorant of the ironmaster's generous intentions,
she attributed his ready deference to all her wishes to his ambition to
become her husband, and even felt contempt for the readiness with which
he had enacted his part in the humiliating comedy played before the
duke, so thoroughly did she misjudge passionate, generous-hearted
Philippe, whose only dream was to restore her happiness.

Mlle, de Beaulieu arrived at two decisions which stupefied everybody.
She wished the wedding to take place at midnight, without the least
pomp, and only the members of the two families to be present. The
marchioness raised her hands to heaven, and the marquis asked his sister
if she were going mad, but Philippe declared these wishes seemed very
proper to him, and so they were carried out.

The marriage contract was signed on the eve of the great day. Claire
remained ignorant of the fact that she was ruined, and signed quite
unsuspectingly the act which endowed her with half M. Derblay's fortune.

The service was performed with the same simplicity as would have been
observed at a pauper's wedding. The dreary music troubled the duke, and
reminded him of his father's funeral, when his aunt and cousins wept
with him. He was now alone. Separated for ever from the dear ones who
had been so kind to him, he compared Philippe's conduct with his own,
and, turning his eyes to Claire, divined that she wept. A light broke on
him; he realised the ironmaster's true position, and decided he might
revenge himself very sweetly.

"She weeps," he said to himself. "She hates that man, and still loves
me."

After the service he looked in vain for traces of tears. She was calm
and smiling, and spoke in perfect self-possession.

But when she was left alone, all on a sudden she found herself face to
face with the cruel reality. She held herself and Philippe in horror.
She must have been mad, and he had acted most unworthily in lending
himself to her plans. When he at last ventured to come to her, her harsh
expression astonished him. She managed to convey to him her wish to
remain alone, and he showed himself so proud and magnanimous, she asked
herself if it would be possible for her to live apart from him. How
could she for ever repel such a loyal, generous man without showing
herself unjust and cruel?

Her husband approached her. His lips touched her forehead. "Till
to-morrow," he said. But as he touched her he was seized with a mad,
passionate longing. He caught her in his arms in an irresistible
transport. "Oh, if you only knew how much I love you!"

Surprised at first, Claire turned livid.

"Leave me!" she cried in an angry voice.

Philippe drew back. "What!" he said, in a troubled voice. "You repel me
with horror! Do you hate me, then? And why? Ah, that man who forsook you
so cowardly--that man, do you still happen to love him?"

"Ah, have you not perceived that I have been mad?" cried Claire, ceasing
to restrain herself. "I have deserved your anger and contempt, no doubt.
Come, take everything belonging to me except myself! My fortune is
yours. I give it you. Let it be the ransom of my liberty."

Philippe was on the point of revealing the truth, which he had hitherto
hidden with such delicacy and care, but he cast the idea aside. "Do you
really take me for a man who sells himself?" he asked coldly. "I, who
came here but a little while ago, palpitating and trembling to tell my
love! Wasn't I more than mad, more than grotesque? For, after all, I
have your fortune. I'm paid. I have no right to complain."

Philippe burst into a bitter laugh, and falling on the sofa, hid his
face in his hands.

"Monsieur," said Claire haughtily, "let us finish this. Spare me useless
raillery----"

Philippe showed his face, down which tears were streaming. "I am not
railing, madame; I am weeping--mourning my happiness, for ever lost. But
this is enough weakness. You wished to purchase your liberty. I give it
you for nothing. You will realise one day that you have been even more
unjust than cruel, and you may then think of trying to undo what you
have done. But it will be useless. If I saw you on your knees begging my
forgiveness, I should not have a word of pity for you. Adieu, madame. We
shall live as you have willed it."

Claire simply bent her head in assent. Philippe gave her a last glance,
hoping for some softening; but she remained inert and frigid. He slowly
opened the door, and closed it, pausing again to listen if a cry or a
sigh would give him--wounded as he was--a pretext for returning and
offering to forgive. But all was silent.

"Proud creature," said he. "You refuse to bend, but I will break you."

The next morning Claire was found insensible, and for months she lay
ill, nursed by Philippe with silent devotion. From that time forth his
manner did not change. Gentle and most attentive to Claire in the
presence of strangers, he was cold, grave, and strictly polite when they
were alone.


_IV.--The Lover's Reward_


In the first expansion of her return to life she had decided she would
be amiable, and frankly grant her friendship to Philippe, but saw, to
her mortification, she was disposed to grant more than was asked of her.
When he handed her "the income of her fortune, for six months," she
became in a moment the proud Claire of other times, and refused to take
it. Their eyes met; she relapsed, conquered. He it was she loved now.
She constantly looked at him, and did whatever she thought would please
him. She learnt with surprise that her husband was on the high road to
becoming one of the princes of industry--that great power of the
century. And when she learnt, accidentally from her brother, that she
herself had had no dowry, she said, "I must win him back, or I shall
die!"

The Duc and Duchess de Bligny arrived at La Varenne. La Varenne became
the scene of numerous fetes, but Claire excused herself from attending
on the ground that she was not yet well enough to sit up late. Athénais'
anticipated pleasure was all lost, since she could not crush her rival
with her magnificence. In her jealous rage she began to devote
particular attention to Monsieur Derblay. At last, Claire judged the cup
was full, and on her fête day, encouraged for the first time by her
husband's glances, called Athénais aside and entreated her to stay away
from their home for a time, at least. Athénais, pale with rage, replied
insultingly, and Claire summoned the duke to take his wife away if he did
not wish her to be turned out in presence of everyone.

With perfect composure Bligny asked Philippe if he approved of what
Madame Derblay had done. In a grave voice, the ironmaster answered,
"Monsieur le Duc, whatever Madame Derblay may do, whatever reason she
may have for doing it, I consider everything she does as well done."

       *       *       *       *       *

Claire saw two pistols lowered. With a shriek, she bounded forward and
clapped her hand on the muzzle of Bligny's pistol!

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour had elapsed without her regaining consciousness. The ironmaster
was leaning over her. Suddenly her eyes opened, and she threw her arms
round his neck. An acute pain passed through her hand, and she
remembered everything--her despair, her anguish, and her sacrifice.

"One word?" she asked. "Tell me, do you love me?"

Philippe showed her a radiant face.

"Yes, I love you," he replied.

A cry escaped Claire. She clung frantically to Philippe; their eyes met,
and in inexpressible ecstasy they exchanged their first kiss of love.

       *       *       *       *       *




OUIDA (LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE)


Under Two Flags


     There are few women writers who have created more stir by
     their works than Louise de la Ramée, the lady who wrote under
     the pen name of Ouida. Born of English and French parentage at
     Bury St. Edmund, England, in 1840, she began to turn to
     account her undoubted literary talents at the age of twenty,
     when she contributed to the "New Monthly" and "Bentley's
     Magazine." In the same year appeared her first long story,
     "Granville de Vigne," which was afterwards renamed and
     republished as "Held in Bondage." From that time an amazing
     output of romances fell in rapid succession from her pen, the
     most picturesque of them, perhaps, being "Under Two Flags"
     (1867) and "Moths." With respect to the former, although on
     occasions it exhibits a tendency towards inaccurate
     observation, the story is told with rare dramatic force and
     descriptive power. From 1874, Mlle. Ramée made her home in
     Italy, where, at Lucca, in spite of her reputation as a
     novelist, she died in straightened circumstances Jan. 25,
     1908.


_I.--An Officer of the Guards_


A Guardsman at home is always luxuriously accommodated, and the Hon.
Bertie Cecil, second son of Viscount Royallieu, was never behind his
fellows in anything; besides, he was one of the crack officers of the
1st Life Guards, and ladies sent him pretty things enough to fill the
Palais Royal.

Then Hon. Bertie was known generally in the brigade as "Beauty," and the
appellative, gained at Eton, was in no way undeserved. His face, with as
much delicacy and brilliancy as a woman's, was at once handsome,
thoroughbred, languid, nonchalant with a certain latent recklessness,
under the impassive calm of habit.

Life petted him and pampered him; lodged him like a prince, dined him
like a king, and had never let him feel the want of all that is bought
by money. How could he understand that he was not as rich a man as his
oldest and closest comrade, Lord Rockingham, a Colossus, known as "the
Seraph," the eldest son of the Duke of Lyonesse?

A quarrel with his father (whom he always alluded to as "Royal")
reminded him that he was ruined; that he would get no help from the old
lord, or from his elder brother, the heir. He was hopelessly in debt;
nothing but the will of his creditors stood between him and the fatal
hour when he must "send in his papers to sell," and be "nowhere" in the
great race of life.

An appeal for money from his young brother, Berkeley, whom he really
loved, forced Cecil to look, for the first time, blankly in the face of
ruin that awaited him.

Berkeley, a boy of twenty, had been gambling, and came to Cecil, as he
had come often enough before, with his tale of needs. It was £300
Berkeley wanted, and he had already borrowed £100 from a friend--a
shameless piece of degradation in Cecil's code.

"It is no use to give you false hopes, young one," said Cecil gently. "I
can do nothing. If the money were mine it should be yours at a word. But
I am all downhill, and my bills may be called in at any moment."

"You are such chums with Rockingham, and he's as rich as all the Jews
put together. What harm could there be if you asked him to lend you some
money for me?"

Cecil's face darkened.

"You will bring some disgrace on us before you die, Berkeley," he said.
"Have you no common knowledge of honour? If I did such a thing I should
deserve to be hounded out of the Guards to-morrow. The only thing for
you to do is to go down and tell Royal, he will sell every stick and
stone for your sake."

"I would rather cut my throat," said the boy. "I have had so much from
him lately."

But in the end he promised to go.

It was hard for Bertie to get it into his brain that he really was at
the end of his resources. There still seemed one chance open to him. He
was a fearless rider, and his horse, Forest King, was famous for its
powers. He entered him for a great race at Baden, and piled on all he
could, determined to be sunk or saved by the race. If he won he might be
able to set things right for a time, and then family influence ought to
procure him an advance in the Guards.

Forest King had never failed its master hitherto, and Bertie would have
been saved by his faithful steed, but for the fact that a blackguardly
turf welcher doctored the horse's mouth, and Forest King was beaten, and
couldn't finish the course.

"Something ails King," said Cecil calmly, "he is fairly knocked off his
legs. Some vet must look to him; ridden a yard further he will fall."


_II "A Mystery--An Error"_


Cecil knew that with the failure of Forest King had gone the last plank
that saved him from ruin, perhaps the last chance that stood between him
and dishonour. He had never looked on it as within the possibilities of
hazard that the horse could be defeated, and the blow fell with crushing
force; the fiercer because his indolence had persisted in ignoring his
danger, and his whole character was so accustomed to ease and to
enjoyment.

He got away from his companions, and wandered out alone into the gardens
in the evening sunlight, throwing himself on a bench beneath a
mountain-ash.

Here the little Lady Venetia, the eight-year-old sister of the colossal
Seraph, found him, and Cecil roused himself, and smiled at her.

"They say you have lost all your money," said the child, "and I want you
to take mine. It is my _very_ own. Papa gives it to me to do just what I
like with it. Please do take it."

Twenty bright Napoleons fell in a glittering shower on the grass.

"_Petite reine_," Cecil murmured gently, "how some man will love you one
day. I cannot take your money, and you will understand why when you are
older. But I will take this if you will give it me," and he picked up a
little enamelled sweetmeat box, and slipped it into his waistcoat
pocket. It was only a child's gift, but he kept it through many a dark
day and wild night.

At that moment as he stood there, with the child beside him, one of the
men of the gardens brought him an English letter, marked "instant."
Cecil took it wearily, broke the envelope, and read a scrawled,
miserable letter, blotted with hot tears, and scored out in impulsive
misery. The Lady Venetia went slowly away and when next they met it was
under the burning sun of Africa.

Alone, Cecil's head sank down upon his hands.

"Oh, God!" he thought. "If it were anything--anything except disgrace!"

An hour later and the Seraph's servant brought him a message, asking him
to come to Lord Rockingham's rooms immediately.

Cecil went, and the Seraph crossed the room with his hand held out; not
for his life in that moment would he have omitted that gesture of
friendship. There was a third person in the room, a Jew, M. Baroni, who
held a folded paper, with the forged signature of _Rockingham_ on it,
and another signature, the name of the forger in whose favour the bill
was drawn; that other signature was--_Bertie Cecil_.

"Cecil, my dear fellow," said the Seraph, "I'm ashamed to send for you
on such a blackguard errand! Here, M. Baroni, make your statement. Later
on, Mr. Cecil can avenge it."

"My statement is easily made," said the Jew. "I simply charge the Hon.
Bertie Cecil with having negotiated a bill with my firm for £750 month,
drawn in his own favour, and accepted at two months' date by your
lordship. Your signature you, my lord marquis, admit to be a forgery.
With that forgery I charge your friend!"

Cecil stood silent, with a strange anguish on his face.

"I am not guilty," he said quietly.

"Beauty--Beauty! Never say that to _me_!" said the Seraph. "Do you think
_I_ can ever doubt you?"

"It is a matter of course," replied Baroni, "that Mr. Cecil denies the
accusation. It is very wise. But I _must_ arrest Mr. Cecil! Were you
alone, my lord, you could prosecute or not, as you please; but ours is
the money obtained by that forgery. If Mr. Cecil will accompany me
unresistingly, I will not summon legal force."

"Cecil, tell me what is to be done?" said the Seraph hoarsely. "I will
send for the duke--"

"Send for no one. I will go with this man. He is right as far as he
knows. The whole is a--a mystery--an error."

Cecil hesitated a moment; then he stretched out his hand. "Will you take
it--still?"

"Take it! Before all the world, always, come what will!"

The Seraph's voice rang clear as the ring of silver. Another moment, and
the door had closed. Cecil went slowly out beside his accuser, not
blaming the Jew in anything.

Once out in the air, the Hebrew laid his hand on his arm. Presently, in
a side-street, three figures loomed in the shadow of the houses--a
German official, the commissary of police, and an English detective. The
Hebrew had betrayed him, and arrested him in the open street.

In an instant all the pride and blood of his race was up. He wrenched
his wrists free and with his left arm felled the detective to earth with
a crushing blow. The German---a powerful and firmly-built man--was on
him at once, but Cecil's science was the finer. For a second the two
rocked in close embrace, and then the German fell heavily.

The cries of Baroni drew a crowd at once, but Cecil dashed, with the
swiftness of the deer, forward into the gathering night.

Flight! The craven's refuge--the criminal's resource! Flight! He wished
in the moment's agony that they would send a bullet through his brain.

Soon the pursuers were far behind. But Cecil knew that he had but the
few remaining hours of night left to save those for whom he had elected
to sacrifice his life.


_III.--Under Another Flag_


Cigarette was the pet of the army of Africa, and was as lawless as most
of her patrons. She was the Friend of the Flag. Soldiers had been about
her from her cradle. They had been her books, her teachers, her
guardians, and, later on, her lovers, all the days of her life. She had
no sense of duty taught her, except to face fire boldly, never to betray
a comrade, and to worship but two deities--"_la Gloire_" and "_la
France_." Her own sex would have seen no good in her, but her
comrades-in-arms could, and did. A certain chasseur d'Afrique in this
army at Algiers puzzled her. He treated her with a grave courtesy, that
made her wish, with impatient scorn for the wish, that she knew how to
read, and had not her hair cut short like a boy's--a weakness the little
vivandière had never been visited with before.

"You are too fine for us, _mon brave_," she said pettishly once to this
chasseur. "They say you are English, but I don't believe it. Say what
you are, then?"

"A soldier of France. Can you wish me more?"

"True," she said simply. "But you were not always a soldier of France?
You joined, they say, twelve years ago. What were you before then?"

"Before?" he answered slowly. "Well--a fool"

"You belonged to the majority, then!" said Cigarette. "But why did you
come into the service? You were born in the noblesse--bah, I know an
aristocrat at a glance! What ruined you, Monsieur l'Aristocrat?"

"Aristocrat? I am none. I am Louis Victor, a corporal of the chasseurs."

"You are dull, _mon brave_."

Cigarette left him, and made her way to the officers' quarters. High or
low, they were all the same to Cigarette, and she would have talked to
the emperor himself as coolly as she did to any private.

She praised the good looks of the corporal of chasseurs, and his
colonel, M. le Marquis de Châteauroy, answered, with a curse, "I wish my
corporal were shot! One can never hear the last of him!"

Meanwhile, the corporal of chasseurs sat alone among the stones of a
ruined mosque. He was a dashing cavalry soldier, who had a dozen wounds
cut over his body by the Bedouin swords in many and hot skirmishes; who
had waited through sultry African nights for the lion's tread; and who
had served well in fierce, arduous work in trying campaigns and in close
discipline.

From the extremes of luxury and indolence Cecil came to the extremes of
hardship and toil. He had borne the change mutely, and without a murmur,
though the first years were years of intense misery. His comrades had
grown to love him, seeing his courage and his willingness to help them,
with a rough, dog-like love.

Twelve years ago in England it was accepted that Bertie Cecil and his
servant Rake had been killed in a railway accident in France.

And the solitary corporal of chasseurs read in the "Galignani" of the
death of his father, Viscount Royallieu, and of his elder brother. The
title and estate that should have been his had gone to his younger
brother.


_IV.--From Death to Life_


The Seraph, now Duke of Lyonesse, and his sister Venetia, Princess
Corona, came on a visit to the French camp, and with them Berkeley,
Viscount Royallieu. Corporal Louis Victor saw them, and, safe from
recognition himself, knew them. But Cecil was not to go down to the
grave unreleased. First, his brother Berkeley coming upon him alone in
the solitude of a desert camp, made concealment impossible.

"Have you lived stainlessly _since_?" were Cecil's only words, stern as
the demand of a judge.

"God is my witness, yes! But you--they said you were dead. That was my
first disgrace, and my last; you bore the weight of my shame. What can I
say? Such nobility, such sacrifice--"

It was for himself that Berkeley trembled.

"I have kept your secret twelve years; I will keep it still," said Cecil
gravely. "Only leave Algeria at once."

A slight incident revealed the corporal's identity to the Princess
Corona. By his bearing he had attracted the attention of the visitors to
the camp, and on being admitted to the villa of the princess to restore
a gold chain dropped carelessly in the road, he disclosed the little
enamelled box, marked "Venetia," the gift of the child in the garden at
Baden.

"That box is mine!" cried the princess. "I gave it! And you? You are my
brother's friend? You are Bertie Cecil?"

"_Petite reine_!" he murmured.

Then he acknowledged who he was, not even for his brother's sake could
he have lied to _her_; but he implored her to say nothing to the Seraph.
"I was innocent, but in honour I can never give you or any living thing
_proof_ that this crime was not mine."

"He is either a madman or a martyr," she mused, when Cecil had left her.
That he loved her was plain, and the time was not far distant when she
should love him, and be willing to share any sacrifice love and honour
might demand.

The hatred of Colonel Châteauroy for his corporal brought matters to a
climax. Meeting Cecil returning from his visit to Venetia, Châteauroy
could not refrain from saying insulting things concerning the princess.

"_You lie_!" cried Cecil; "and you know that you lie! Breathe her name
once more, and, as we are both living men, I will have your life for
your outrage!"

And as he spoke Cecil smote him on the lips.

Châteauroy summoned the guard, the corporal was placed under arrest, and
brought to court-martial.

In three days' time Corporal Louis Victor would be shot by order of the
court-martial.

Cigarette, and Cigarette alone, prevented the sentence being carried
out, and that at the cost of her life.

She was away from the camp at the time in a Moorish town when the news
came to her; and she stumbled on Berkeley Cecil, and, knowing him for an
Englishman, worked on his feelings, and gave him no rest till he had
acknowledged the condemned man for his elder brother and the lawful
Viscount Royallieu, peer of England.

With this document, signed and sealed by Berkeley, Cigarette galloped
off to the fortress where the marshal of France, who was Viceroy of
Africa, had arrived. The marshal knew Cigarette; he had decorated her
with the cross for her valour in battle, and with the whole army of
Africa he loved and admired her.

Cigarette gave him the document, and told him all she knew of the
corporal's heroism. And the marshal promised the sentence should be
deferred until he had found out the whole truth of the matter.

With the order of release in her bosom Cigarette once more vaulted into
the saddle, to ride hard through the day and night--for at sunrise on
the morrow will the sentence be executed.

And now it is sunrise, and the prisoner has been brought out to the
slope of earth out of sight of the camp.

At the last the Seraph appeared, and found in the condemned man the
friend of his youth. It was only with great difficulty that Rockingham
was overpowered, for he swore Cecil should not be killed, and a dozen
soldiers were required to get him away.

Then Cecil raised his hand, and gave the signal for his own death-shot.

The levelled carbines covered him; ere they could fire a shrill cry
pierced the air: "Wait! In the name of France!"

Dismounted and breathless, Cigarette was by the side of Cecil, and had
flung herself on his breast.

Her cry came too late; the volley was fired, and while the prisoner
stood erect, grazed only by some of the balls, Cigarette fell, pierced
and broken by the fire. She died in Cecil's arms, with the comrades she
had loved around her.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is spring. Cecil is Lord of Royallieu, the Lady Venetia is his bride.

"It was worth banishment to return," he murmured to her. "It was worth
the trials that I bore to learn the love that I have known."

And the memories of both went back to a place in a desert land where the
folds of the tricolour drooped over one little grave--a grave where the
troops saluted as they passed it, because on the white stone there was
carved a name that spoke to every heart:

              CIGARETTE
    ENFANT DE L'ARMÉE, SOLDAT DE LA FRANCE.

       *       *       *       *       *




JAMES PAYN


Lost Sir Massingberd


     James Payn, one of the most prolific literary workers of the
     second half of the nineteenth century, was born at Cheltenham,
     England, Feb. 28, 1830, and died March 23, 1898. After a false
     start in education for the army, he went to Cambridge
     University, where he was president of the Union, and published
     some poems. The acceptance of his contributions by "Household
     Words" turned him to his true vocation. After writing some
     years for "Chambers's Journal" he became its editor from 1850
     till 1874. His first work of fiction, "The Foster Brothers," a
     story founded on his college life, appeared in 1859, but it
     was not until five years later that Payn's name was
     established as a novelist. This was on the publication of
     "Lost Sir Massingberd, a Romance of Real Life." The story
     first appeared in "Chambers's Journal," and is marked by all
     his good qualities--ingenious construction, dramatic
     situations, and a skilful arrangement of incidents.
     Altogether, Payn wrote about sixty volumes of novels and short
     stories.


_I.--Neither Fearing God Nor Regarding Man_


In a Midland county, not as yet scarred by factories, there stands a
village called Fairburn, which at the time I knew it first had for its
squire, its lord, its despot, one Sir Massingberd Heath. Its rector, at
that date, was the Rev. Matthew Long, into whose wardship I, Peter
Meredith, an Anglo-Indian lad, was placed by my parents. I loved Mr.
Long, although he was my tutor; and oh, how I feared and hated Mr.
Massingberd! It was not, however, my boyhood alone that caused me to
hold this man as a monster of iniquity; it was the opinion which the
whole county entertained of him, more or less. Like the unjust judge, he
neither feared God nor regarded man.

He had been a fast, very fast friend of the regent; but they were no
longer on speaking terms. Sir Massingberd had left the gay, wicked world
for good, and was obliged to live at his beautiful country seat in spite
of himself. He was irretrievably ruined, and house and land being
entailed upon his nephew Marmaduke, he had nothing but a life interest
in anything.

Marmaduke Heath was Mr. Long's pupil as well as myself, and he resided
with his uncle at the Hall. He dreaded his relative beyond measure. All
the pretended frankness with which the old man sometimes treated the lad
was unable to hide the hate with which Sir Massingberd really regarded
him; but for this heir-presumptive to the entail, the baronet might
raise money to any extent, and once more take his rightful station in
the world.

Abject terror obscured the young existence of Marmaduke Heath. The
shadow of Sir Massingberd cast itself over him alike when he went out
from his hated presence and when he returned to it.

Soon after my first meeting with Marmaduke, Sir Massingberd unexpectedly
appeared before me. He was a man of Herculean proportions, dressed like
an under-gamekeeper, but with the face of one who was used to command.
On his forehead was a curious indented frown like the letter V, and his
lips curled contemptuously upward in the same shape. These two together
gave him a weird, demoniacal look, which his white beard, although long
and flowing, had not enough of dignity to do away with. He ordered his
nephew to go home, and the boy instantly obeyed, as though he almost
dreaded a blow from his uncle. Then the baronet strode away, and his
laugh echoed again and again, for it was joy to know that he was feared.

Mr. Long determined to buy a horse for me, and upon my suggestion that I
wished Marmaduke Heath to spend more time in my company, he and I went
up to the Hall to ask Sir Massingberd if he were willing. The squire
received us curtly, and upon hearing of my tutor's intention, declared
that he himself would select a horse for Marmaduke. Then, since he
wished to talk with Mr. Long concerning Mr. Chint, the family lawyer, he
bade me go to his nephew's room, calling upon Grimjaw, a loathsome old
dog, to act as my guide. This beast preceded me up the old oak staircase
to a chamber door, before which it sat and whined. Marmaduke opened this
and admitted me, and we sat talking together.

My tutor found us together, and knowing the house better than the heir
did, offered to play cicerone and show me over. In the state bed-room, a
great room facing the north, he disclosed to us a secret stairway that
opened behind a full-length portrait. Marmaduke, who had been unaware of
its existence, grew ghastly pale.

"The foot of the stairway is in the third bookcase on the left of the
library door," said Mr. Long. "I dare say that nobody has moved the
picture for twenty years."

"Yes, yes!" said Marmaduke passionately. "My uncle has moved it. When I
was ill, upon my coming to Fairburn, I slept here, and I had terrible
visions. I see it all now. He wanted to frighten me to death, or to make
me mad. He would come and stand by my bedside and stare at me. Cruel--
cruel coward!"

Then he begged us to go away. "My uncle will wonder at your long delay.
He will suspect something," he said.

"Peter," observed my tutor gravely, as we went homeward, "whatever you
may think of what has passed to-day, say nothing. I am not so ignorant
of the wrongs of that poor boy as I appear, but there is nothing for it
but patience."


_II.--A Gypsy's Curse_


In a few days I was in possession of an excellent horse, and Marmaduke
had the like fortune. My tutor examined the steed Sir Massingberd had
bought with great attention, and after commenting on the tightness of
the curb, declared that he would accompany us on our first ride. After
we had left the village, he expressed a wish to change mounts with
Marmaduke, and certainly if he had been a horsebreaker he could not have
taken more pains with the animal. In the end he expressed himself highly
satisfied. Some days afterwards, however, Panther, for so we called the
horse, behaved in a strange and incomprehensible fashion, and at last
became positively fiendish. Shying at a gypsy encampment, he rushed at
headlong speed down a zigzagged chalk road, and at last pitched
head-first over a declivity. When I found Marmaduke blood was at his
mouth, blood at his ears, blood everywhere.

"Marmaduke, Marmaduke!" I cried. "Speak! Speak, if it be but a single
word! Great heaven, he is dead!"

"Dead! No, not he," answered a hoarse, cracked voice at my ear. "The
devil would never suffer a Heath of Fairburn to die at his age!"

"Woman," cried I, for it was an old gypsy, who had somehow transported
herself to the spot, "for God's sake go for help! There is a house
yonder amongst the trees."

"And why should I stir a foot," replied she fiercely, "for the child of
a race that has ever treated me and mine as dogs?"

Then she cursed Sir Massingberd as the oppressor of her kith and kin,
concluding with the terrible words, "May he perish, inch by inch, within
reach of the aid that shall never come, ere the God of the poor take him
into His hand!"

"If you hate Sir Massingberd Heath," said I despairingly, "and want to
do him the worst service that lies in your power, flee, flee to that
house, and bid them save this boy's life, which alone stands between his
beggared uncle and unknown riches!"

Revenge accomplished what pity had failed to work. She knelt at his
side, from a pocket produced a spirit-flask in a leathern case, and
applied it to his lips. After a painful attempt to swallow, he
succeeded; his eyelids began tremulously to move, and the colour to
return to his pallid cheeks. She disappeared; during her absence I noted
that the tarnished silver top of the flask bore upon it a facsimile of
one of the identical griffins which guarded each side of the broad steps
that led to Fairburn Hall.

After a short interval, a young and lovely girl appeared, accompanied by
a groom and butler, who bore between them a small sofa, on which
Marmaduke was lifted and gently carried to the house. The master came in
soon, accompanied by the local doctor, who at last delivered the verdict
that my friend "would live to be a baronet."

He said, moreover, that the youth must be kept perfectly quiet, and not
moved thence on any consideration--it might be for weeks. Harvey Gerard,
a noble-looking gentleman, refused to admit Sir Massingberd under his
roof.

The baronet, however, did appear towards twilight, and forced his way
into the house, where Harvey Gerard met him with great severity. Soon
hatred took the place of all other expressions on the baronet's face,
and he swore that he would see his nephew.

"That you shall not do, Sir Massingberd," said the gentleman. "If you
attempt to do so, my servants will put you out of the house by force."

"Before night, then, I shall send for him, and he shall be carried back
to Fairburn, to be nursed in his proper home."

"Nursed!" repeated Harvey Gerard hoarsely. "Nursed by the gravedigger!"

Sir Massingberd turned livid.

"To hear you talk one would think that I had tried to murder the boy,"
he said.

"I _know_ you did!" cried Harvey Gerard solemnly. "To-day you sent your
nephew forth upon that devil with a snaffle-bridle instead of a curb!
See, I track your thoughts like slime. Base ruffian, begone from beneath
this roof, false coward!"

Sir Massingberd started up like one stung by an adder.

"Yes, I say coward!" continued Harvey Gerard. "Heavens, that this
creature should still feel touch of shame! Be off, be off; molest not
anyone within this house at peril of your life! Murderer!"

For once Sir Massingberd had met his match--and more. He seized his hat,
and hurried from the room.


_III.--A Wife Undesired_


When Marmaduke recovered consciousness, twelve hours after his terrible
fall, he told me that he had been given a sign of his approaching
demise.

"I have seen a vision in the night," he said, "far too sweet and fair
not to have been sent from heaven itself. They say the Heaths have
always ghastly warnings when their hour is come; but this was surely a
gentle messenger."

"Your angel is Lucy Gerard," replied I quietly, "and we are at this
moment in her father's house."

He was silent for a time, with features as pale as the pillow on which
he lay; then he repeated her name as though it were a prayer.

"It would indeed be bitter for me to die _now_," he said.

I myself was stricken with love for Lucy Gerard, and would have laid
down my life to kiss her finger-tips. Nearly half a century has passed
over my head since the time of which I write, and yet, I swear to you,
my old heart glows again, and on my withered cheeks there comes a blush
as I call to mind the time when I first met that pure and lovely girl.
But from the moment that Marmaduke Heath spoke to me as he did, upon his
bed of sickness, of our host's daughter, I determined within myself not
only to stand aside, and let him win if he could, but to help him by all
the means within my power. And so it came about that later I told Lucy
that his recovery depended upon her kindness, and won her to look upon
him with compassion and with tenderness.

Mr. Clint, the lawyer, came from London, and arrangements were made for
Marmaduke to continue in Harvey Gerard's care, and when Marmaduke was
convalescent the Gerards removed him to their residence in Harley
street. After I had bidden them farewell, I rode slowly towards
Fairburn, but was stopped at some distance by a young gypsy boy, who
summoned me to the encampment to converse with the aged woman whom I had
seen on the occasion of the accident. She bade me sit down beside her,
and after a time produced the silver-mounted flask, concerning whose
history I felt great curiosity. I asked her how it came into her
possession, and she herself asked a question in turn.

"Has it never struck you why Sir Massingberd has not long ago taken to
himself a young wife, and begotten an heir for the lands of Fairburn, in
despite of his nephew?"

"If that be so," said I, "why does not Sir Massingberd marry?"

Thereupon she told me that many years ago he had joined their company,
and shared their wandering fortune. Her sister Sinnamenta, a beautiful
girl beloved by the handsome Stanley Carew, had fascinated him, and he
would have married her according to gypsy rites; but since her father
did not believe that he meant to stay with the tribe longer than it
suited him, he peremptorily refused his request. Sir Massingberd left
them; they struck tent at once, and travelled to Kirk Yetholm, in
Roxburghshire, a mile from the frontier of Northumberland. There the
wretch followed her, and again proposed to go through the Cingari
ceremony, and this time the father consented. It was on the wedding-day
that he gave my informant the shooting-flask as a remembrance, just
before he and his wife went away southward. Long months afterwards
Sinnamenta returned heart-stricken, woebegone, about to become a mother,
with nothing but wretchedness in the future, and even her happy past a
dream dispelled.

The gypsies were at Fairburn again, and Sinnamenta's father sent for Sir
Massingberd, and he was told that the marriage was legal, Kirk Yetholm
being over the border. An awful silence succeeded this disclosure. Sir
Massingberd turned livid, and twice in vain essayed to speak; he was
well-nigh strangled with passion. At last he caught Sinnamenta's Wrist
with fingers of steel.

"What man shall stop me from doing what I will with my own?" he cried.
"Come along with me, my pretty one!"

Stanley Carew flung himself upon him, knife in hand; but the others
plucked him backward, and Sir Massingberd signed to his wife to followed
him, and she obeyed. That night Stanley Carew was arrested on a false
charge of horse-stealing, and lying witnesses soon afterwards brought
him to the gallows.

"I know not what she suffered immediately after she was taken from us,"
concluded the old woman. "But this I have heard, that when he told her
of the death of Stanley Carew, she fell down like one dead, and
presently, being delivered of a son, the infant died after a few hours.
Yonder," she looked menacingly towards Fairburn Hall, "the mother
lives--a maniac. What else could keep me here in a place that tortures
me with memories of my youth, and of loving faces that have crumbled
into dust? What else but the hope of one day seeing my little sister
yet, and the vengeance of Heaven upon him who has worked her ruin? If
Massingberd Heath escape some awful end, there is no Avenger on high. I
am old, but I shall see it yet, I shall see it before I die."


_IV.--The Curse Fulfilled_


I returned to Fairburn, and soon Sir Massingberd, finding that all
correspondence with his nephew was interrupted by Harvey Gerard, began
to pay small attentions to my tutor and myself. At last he appeared at
the rectory, and desired me to forward a letter to Marmaduke.
This--finding nothing objectionable in the contents--I agreed to do, and
he departed, after inviting me to make use of his grounds whenever I
pleased. On the morrow I yielded to curiosity, and after wandering to
and fro in the park, came near a small stone house with unglazed,
iron-grated windows. A short, sharp shriek clove the humid air, and
approaching, I looked into a sitting-room, where an ancient female sat
eating a chicken without knife or fork. Her hair was scanty and white as
snow, but hung almost to the ground.

"Permit me to introduce myself," she said. "I am Sinnamenta, Lady Heath.
You are not Stanley Carew, are you? They told me that he was hung, but I
know better than that. To be hung for nothing must be a terrible thing;
but how much worse to be hung for love! It is not customary to watch a
lady when she is partaking of refreshment."

Then the poor mad creature turned her back, and I withdrew from the sad
scene. A day or two afterwards the post carried misfortune from me to
Harley Street. The wily baronet had fooled me, and had substituted a
terrible letter for that which he had persuaded me to enclose to his
nephew.

"Return hither, sir, at once," he had written. "It is far worse than
idle to attempt to cross my will. I give you twenty-four hours to arrive
after the receipt of this letter. I shall consider your absence to be
equivalent to a contumacious refusal. However well it may seem with you,
it will not be well. Whenever you think yourself safest, you will be
most in danger. There is, indeed, but one place of safety for you; come
you home."

Very soon afterwards, and before we knew of this villainy, word reached
us that the baronet was lost, and could not be found. He had started on
his usual nocturnal rounds in the preserves, and nobody had seen him
since midnight. Old Grimjaw, the dog, had been found on the doorstep,
nigh frozen to death.

The news spread like wild-fire through Fairburn village. I myself joined
the searchers, but soon separated from them, and passing the home
spinney, near by which was the famous Wolsey oak, a tree of great age. I
heard a sound that set my heart beating, and fluttering like the wings
of a prisoned bird against its cage. Was it a strangled cry for "Help!"
repeated once, twice, thrice, or was it the cold wind clanging and
grinding the naked branches of the spinney? But nought living was to be
seen; a bright wintry sun completely penetrated the leafless woodland.
At last I came upon the warm but lifeless body of Grimjaw lying on the
grass, and I hurried madly from the accursed place to where the men were
dragging the lake.

No clue was found, and my tutor began to fear that the gypsies had made
away with their enemy. Word came that they had passed through the
turnpike with a covered cart, and we rode out to interview them. The old
woman met us, and conducted us to the vehicle, when we found Sinnamenta,
Lady Heath, weaving rushes into crowns.

"My little sister is not beaten now," said the beldam. "May God's curse
have found Sir Massingberd! I would that I had his fleshless bones to
show you. Where he may be we know not; we only hope that in some hateful
spot he may be suffering unimagined pains!"

By the next post I received bitter news from Harley Street. A copy of
the menacing epistle reached me from Harvey Gerard. In a postscript Lucy
added that Marmaduke was too ill to write. An hour later Mr. Long and I
set off to town, where we found the lad in a less morbid state than we
had expected. He had asked, and gained, Harvey Gerard's permission to
marry his daughter, and the beautiful girl was supporting him with all
her strength.

The services of Townsend, the great Bow street runner, were called for;
but in spite of his endeavours, no solution was discovered to the
mystery of Sir Massingberd's disappearance. Fairburn Hall remained
without a master, occupied only by the servants.

At last Marmaduke came of age, and as he and Lucy were now man and wife,
it was decreed that they must return to the old home. Art changed that
sombre house into a comfortable and splendid mansion, and when Lucy
brought forth a son, the place seemed under a blessing, and no longer
under a curse. But it was not until the christening feast of the young
heir was celebrated with due honour that the secret of Sir Massingberd's
disappearance was discovered.

Some young boys, playing at hide-and-seek, were using the Wolsey oak for
"home," and, whilst waiting there, dug a hole with their knives, and
came upon a life-preserver that the baronet had always carried. Then a
keeper climbed the tree, and cried out that it was hollow, and there was
a skeleton inside.

"It's my belief," said the man, "that Sir Massingberd must have climbed
up into the fork to look about him for poachers, and that the wood gave
way beneath him, and let him down feet foremost into the trunk."

Later, as I looked upon the ghastly relics of humanity, the old gypsy's
curse recurred to my mind with dreadful distinctness. "May he perish,
inch by inch, within reach of the aid that shall never come, ere the God
of the poor take him into His hand."














End of Project Gutenberg's The World's Greatest Books, Vol VI., by Various